


Home to Roost

by EPS (Lillian_Shepherd)



Category: Garrison's Gorillas
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-12
Updated: 2012-05-12
Packaged: 2017-11-05 05:26:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 93,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/402913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lillian_Shepherd/pseuds/EPS
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The mission in Switzerland to retrieve the industrial diamonds ( Episode:<i>The War Diamonds</i>) has left Garrison seriously injured and the Gorillas stood down, though that does not guarantee their safety.</p><p>Meanwhile, Germany's top spy-catcher has obtained a lead on the team that has pulled off the series of astonishing intelligence coups across Europe over the last two years.</p><p>But the demands of friendship and family are about to catch up with both Garrison and Actor, in the midst of the most exacting mission of their lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First published as a stand-alone fanzine in 1999
> 
> My thanks to Pamela Dale, whose idea for Garrison's background I quite shamelessly stole, but who hasn't complained;
> 
> Thanks to C.J. Ueberall, for translating idiomatic English into German at incredible speed. Any mistakes – and I know of one or two where I should have checked with her and didn't – are entirely from my pen!
> 
> Pamela (again) and (mainly) Inamac for proof-reading and the latter for saving me from at least horrendous error ("Isn't he dead?")

**Chapter 1**

 

Franz Müller alias 'Frank Miller' alias 'Hans Wilder' and any number of other names in four languages lay back in his hospital bed and watched his visitors warily while he described his last, disastrous mission. He had suspected that he would not be going back to Basel on behalf of the _Reich_ , indeed, would be lucky not to be condemned as a failure – almost worse than a traitor – and exiled to the Russian front. The stupidity of it was that he had had the vital industrial diamonds in his grasp, and had lost them to a spur-of-the-moment improvisation by his opponent, the man who had named himself Adolph Flügg, though that was no doubt no more his real name than 'Wilder' had been Müller's.

These men, though, made the Russian front seem an easier option. Von Staaden had no obvious rank within the _SS_ or _Wehrmacht_ but there was no-one, in any of those organisations who knew of him – and they were few – who did not fear him. Many called him simply _Der Spionenfänger_ , the spycatcher. It was said that the _Führer_ himself trusted no-one unless von Staaden had endorsed his loyalty. Now here he was, at Müller's bedside, when he had expected merely a _Gestapo_ interrogation, accompanied by a smiling man, nondescript except for a slightly-too-large but undeniably Aryan nose, whom he had not introduced but whom he addressed as 'Krantz'.

It was chilling.

They wanted to know about his recent failure in Switzerland, the one that had placed him in this hospital bed.

Judging that von Staaden was not interested in excuses, Müller made none, just described how he had followed instructions, at first negotiating the "ransom" for the return of the industrial diamonds stolen from a train in Holland, then, when the thief had died, assembling a team to break into the safe deposit box in the Bank Universal of Basel where they had been secured, only to find they had been anticipated. Even then, Müller had had the situation in hand. He was still trying to work out how it had escaped from his grasp.

When he had finished, von Staaden leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers and regarded him over them. "I see. Very well, _Herr_ Müller, describe these men to me."

"There were five of them. Their leader – he called himself Adolph Flügg when we spoke in the mortuary – is tall, very powerful, fair-haired and... light-eyed, I think, blue or grey or grey-green. His age...? Hard to say. In his twenties, I suppose. He speaks German as well as I do. I would not have believed him American which, by his accent when he speaks English with no need of pretence, I now judge him to be. A dangerous man. Clever, tough and ruthless, willing to give his life for his country, though his men were not willing to take it.

"In the mortuary, he was accompanied by a dark-haired man, older by perhaps ten years, and very tall."

"It's them," Krantz interrupted, in obvious excitement. "That must be Actor."

"'Actor'? You know these men?"

"Only that one name – or rather alias. He's a criminal, a confidence trickster known from one side of Europe to the other. Presently, he is supposed to be in jail in the United States."

Müller shook his head. "They did not act like American gangsters."

"Who didn't? The others? What did they look like?"

"All of them," Müller said, taking the questions in order. "I did not see the others for more than a few moments, when I was holding their leader at gunpoint. The man conducting the break-in to the vault was dark, strong, perhaps thirty or so. There was another dark young man, not Aryan, but no Negro, and a yellow-haired, thin-faced fellow, shorter and slimmer than the others, though not small. None of them are small men."

Krantz shot a look at his superior. "It is them."

"Indeed. I will tell you, _Herr_ Müller, that you may think yourself unlucky but you have done well to escape with your life."

"Sir, I don't understand. These men are known to you? I assumed they had been assembled for the same reason I collected my team – to break into the bank vault – but you imply that they are more than that."

Von Staaden nodded. "Much more. They have been operating for far longer than that too. You will have heard of the explosion that destroyed the Steingart underground factory? That was where we first began to realise what we were up against.

"Everything that had gone in and out of the factory had been thoroughly searched, so where had the bomb come from? Well, something unusual, though not unprecedented, happened that day. Several million Marks's worth of gold bullion had been transferred to the factory from the Reichsbank and it would just be possible to conceal a bomb _within_ those bars."

"But—?"

"But why, you ask, had the bars been transferred at all? That is where the story gets interesting. Steingart had been undergoing a crime wave unparalleled in its history. Nothing seemed safe. All had been blamed on the escape of a group of convicts. Yet when some of the convicts were recaptured, they insisted they didn't know who had freed them and denied that local criminals had been responsible.

"The recommendation that the gold be transferred to the underground factory came from a visiting bank examiner. That was not unprecedented, but we have been unable to trace that particular examiner.

"Finally, and very oddly, the armoured car carrying the gold had been attacked on the road to the factory. The driver and guards say the police arrived just in time to give them a chance to fight off the attackers and get away. Indeed, all the dead found at the scene were known criminals – but the _police_ were never there."

"It was all planned?" Müller asked on a rising note of incredulity.

"Someone, with what I can only describe as an excessively devious mind, had freed the convicts in order to provide cover for the crime wave which also gave them the opportunity to send in the fake bank examiner who ordered the move to the factory. When and how the bombs were placed... Well, there was nothing left to give us a clue, but I suspect there was a raid on the bank vault, which if detected would also have been blamed on the local criminals."

By now Müller was fascinated. "And the attack on the armoured car?"

"I would guess the local crooks went after the bullion and our men made sure that it – and the bombs – got through."

Müller shook his head. "It sounds unlikely."

"Yes. It does. As unlikely as a raid on a Swiss bank, eh? Or convincing _Feldmarschall_ Hauser of a fake Allied advance, then walking in to his HQ disguised as _SS_ , explaining that the advance had been a trick, and leaving with an important prisoner." Von Staaden began to pace. "I see their hand everywhere. When General Kaltenbrunner first defected, we recaptured him and killed the commandos who protected him. The plan was to fly him back to Berlin, accompanied by _Gestapo_ and _SS_ Only another group purporting to be guarding Kaltenbrunner arrived at the airfield first. The plane went to England – and so did the General. I may be paranoid, but men who are capable of kidnapping three babies held as hostages in Essen and taking them all the way across Germany to Switzerland with the _Gestapo_ on their tails – for part of the way dressed as women on a train full of troops... Well, they are capable of anything. Only last week, our spies reported that _Feldmarschall_ Donner was not dead but alive and in the United States. If I was the Allied commander who needed that done, I know whom I would send. What worries me is that what we know and suspect may be only a small part of what has been achieved. Not long before Donner vanished, a previously reliable source of information was proved false – too late. It cost us dearly. From the reports... they were there. I am sure of it. What else is lurking that they have had a hand in, eh? They must be not just stopped but captured, interrogated and broken."

"Sir," Müller said. "If there is any way I can help..."

"You were posing as a photographer. I don't suppose you took a picture of any of them?" Krantz asked wistfully.

"No, I'm afraid not but—"

"Then—"

"But I am a reasonable sketch artist. I think I could draw a portrait of their leader, at least."

Von Staaden and Krantz looked at each other. Though their expressions had not changed, Müller felt the increase in tension. Suddenly, they were taking him seriously.

"Arrange it," von Staaden told Krantz.

Müller pushed his advantage. "There is more help I can give. I will recognise any of them again. And this time I will be on my guard."

Von Staaden smiled. "You are the nearest thing to an expert we have, _Herr_ Müller. Do not worry. I think we will be seeing much more of each other – and, I hope, of our American friends." 

 

Wandering somewhat unsteadily up the drive towards the darkened bulk of the fortified manor house that served as both quarters and HQ for the bizarre special forces unit to which he – to his continuing surprise – belonged, Rodney Davidson, alias 'Goniff', was woefully contemplating his lot. Not only had his best friend Casino managed to vanish with the new barmaid at the Doves who he'd been planning to pick up himself, but the guard at the gate had greeted him with a cheery, "Have a nice evening, sir?"

_Sir?_

Time was, they'd had to sneak in and out by increasingly inventive routes in order to get a quiet drink. Now they were simply required to say where they were going.

It just wasn't fun any more.

Still, it must mean they trust us, mustn't it?

As he climbed the small flight of steps to the doors, he noticed a tiny chink of light escaping through the Blackout curtains of Lieutenant Garrison's office.

Goniff sobered at once. Any break in the Blackout was not only reprehensible, but also bloody dangerous – and in a military establishment, an indictable offence.

The Warden was back from hospital, but he'd still seemed pretty groggy. Probably left the light on by mistake. Better turn it out for him.

Goniff ambled along the corridor and pushed open the heavy door.

Garrison looked up sharply from where he was sitting at his desk.

Goniff, pausing with a hand reaching for the light switch, was frozen by a trio of mental alarm bells: one, Garrison not only had a glass of whiskey cradled between his hands, but he was drunk – and Goniff had never seen him even remotely tipsy before; two, he looked like hell; and three, his stare was hard with anger, and some other emotion that Goniff could not at present identify and wasn't sure he wanted to.

"Haven't you learned to knock?" The soft voice was only slightly slurred, but held the careful precision of the very-drunk-wanting-to-appear-sober. Goniff remembered a local copper who'd sounded like that, just before he'd started in on you with the truncheon. "Or did you think there was something in here worth stealing?"

"Thought you'd left the light on by mistake," Goniff said. Then, when the anger in Garrison's stare didn't lessen. "There's a leak in your Blackout curtain. S'visible from the drive."

It seemed to take a few seconds to penetrate, then the uncomfortable stare shifted from Goniff's eyes and its owner leaned back in his chair in an effort to appear relaxed. "Oh. Guess I should've checked it. Thanks, Goniff. Fix it for me, huh?"

Yeah. You probably couldn't get across the room without falling over.

As Goniff shook the curtain into place he was remembering a conversation that had taken place earlier that day: 

_"We're not likely to be sent on mission for some time," Actor had said. "I gather the doctors decided the only way to stop the Warden fretting was to let him out, but he's still taking an alarming amount of medication, and he's under the usual instructions: complete rest, avoid alcohol—"_

_"Yeah, we know the early nights and chicken soup routine," Casino had interrupted. "So does the Warden. He ain't stupid, Actor."_

_"Yes..." Actor had agreed, but there had been a dubious note in his voice._

With reason, apparently, Goniff thought, reluctantly turning to face his commander. While his back had been turned, Garrison had switched on his reading lamp.

Didn't want me to see him fumble for the switch.

"Turn the lights out as you go," he ordered.

Goniff took a deep breath and braced himself. "Er... Warden, didn't you ought to be in bed?

"And didn't you ought to be back in your quarters?"

Goniff took a step towards the desk. "It ain't a good idea to mix booze with those pills you're takin'..."

"I'm sure the doctors value your medical opinion as much as I do," Garrison told him, making the sarcasm bite.

Goniff stood his ground. "It was the quacks wot said it, an' you know it."

"I know I gave you an order."

Goniff's head twisted slightly to one side, like a horse trying to work out whether to shy. He scrubbed at his hair. "Aw, Warden—"

Garrison's voice was rising. "I told you to get out, Goniff."

"Look, put the booze away an' let me make you some coffee instead, okay? Then—"

"Or would you really rather be going back to Sing Sing?" Garrison's voice was truly dangerous now.

"Warden—"

"Get _out!_ "

The very force of it made Goniff step backwards. "Okay. Sorry. Keep yer 'air on." He reached out and clicked off the light switch before ducking out of the door. Once it was closed, he leaned his back against it, breathing heavily. He was aware of his own limitations, knew he daren't go back in but he also knew, with equal certainty, that Garrison needed help. Well, one of them did.

Racing upstairs towards their quarters, he almost collided with a dinner-jacketed Actor, who saved himself by a smart piece of dodging. "You stupid clod! Drunk as usual, I see—"

"Actor, you gotta help," Goniff panted.

"Goniff, I have a taxi waiting to take me to a very important date."

"This is important."

"Not as important as the fair Josephine," Actor assured him, patting his cheek as he went past.

Goniff dived after him, and had to catch the banister to stop himself hurtling over it. "Actor, something's wrong with the Warden."

Actor stopped dead. He was frowning as he turned to look at him. "What?"

"Well, he 'adn't done the Blackout properly—"

"Goniff—" It was a threat.

"An' when I went in to switch the lights off, he was still in there, Actor. What's more, he's bin drinkin'. 'Bout three quarters of a bottle of Bourbon, I'd say. He's plastered. An' there's something really screwy. He wouldn't let me near him, or let me talk to him, just shouted at me. I ain't never seen him like that before."

"He shouted at you?"

"Yeah. And threatened to send me back to Sing Sing – though I don't think he meant that. Not really." Goniff sounded as if he was trying to convince himself.

Actor said something in Italian that was probably better not translated. He ripped away his tie, then unbuttoned his collar. "All right, Goniff, I'll handle it," he said, with an air of easy confidence. "You go and pay off my taxi, okay?"

He had already started down the hall when Goniff caught his arm. "Oi! Money, mate."

Actor sighed with an air of long-suffering, withdrew his wallet, peeled two bills into Goniff's outstretched palm, then resumed his journey to Garrison's office at his deceptively casual long-legged lope. Once out of sight, though, he broke into a run.

 

"So this is what you look like." Von Staaden propped the copy of Müller's drawing against his telephone and stared at it over his laced fingers. He mustn't read personality into this face, though it was hard not to look for the intelligence and determination he knew his young opponent possessed in full measure.

The portrait's eyes stared blandly back. Von Staaden had the uncomfortable feeling that that was what they would do when he finally met the man in real life.

"Who are you?" he asked them.

"Pardon?"

Von Staaden glared at the tall man who, with his brushed back and brilliantine-flattened white hair, and slight stoop, had the air of an elegant stork. "What are you doing here, _Herr_ Heinzel?"

"You asked me to bring you my analysis as soon as it was completed."

"Yes. I'm sorry. Please sit down, _Herr_ Heinzel..." He paused. Heinzel was still staring at the picture with an odd expression. "You know him?" he demanded trying, and failing, to keep the excitement out of his voice.

"No," Heinzel was definite. "But he does remind me of someone." 

"Who?" 

"I'm... not sure." Heinzel picked up the portrait and studied it. "The hair's wrong... and I think the man I am thinking of was older..."

As he twisted the portrait this way and that, von Staaden reached for the intercom. "Krantz. Come in here and bring several copies of Müller's drawing and a brown wax crayon."

 

Once outside Garrison's office, Actor found himself hesitating. How to play it. He prided himself on being able to get any person in any situation to do what he wanted with nothing more than words. Except Garrison. He could try a casual, "I saw the light under the door? May I join you?" or "Your phone must be off the hook. Colonel Yates just called, asked me to check on you..." Neither would work. It was all very well to reassure Goniff that he could handle it but, even drunk, Garrison would recognise a con a mile off. 

Straight, then, though why that should take so much courage...

With a little grimace at his own fears, he pushed open the door, stepped through quickly, closed it, took the two strides necessary to reach the desk, caught hold of Garrison's uninjured shoulder and swung the chair so he could look directly into his eyes. It was enough to confirm everything Goniff had said.

"Just look at you!" he said crossly. "What the hell am I going to tell Colonel Yates?"

"Fuck off, Actor."

The belligerence gave Actor the advantage. "If I tell him that, we'll both end up in the stockade." He smiled affectionately at Garrison. "Come on, Warden. You know you shouldn't be drinking, or be up so late. The only reason the doctors let you come home—"

Garrison laughed harshly. "Home?"

"This is the only place I've lived in the last fifteen years that I've thought of as home," Actor said. "Whatever you call it, it's a place where there are people who care that a normally very sensible young man who's taken – what is it? – five? – bullets in the last year—"

"Actor—"

"And has only been allowed _home_ ," Actor stressed the word, "because he has _promised_ to follow _orders_ , not only from his doctors, but his company commander, is now defying those orders and sitting up at nearly midnight, drinking large amounts of alcohol and shouting at—"

"Oh, so it was Goniff who—"

"Who told me you were making another attempt to kill yourself? Yes."

"Now you're being ridiculous."

"Am I? What about that bomb in Mannheim, eh? Just because I wasn't there doesn't mean I don't know about it. 'Choose a wire' – ha! I wasn't in the bank vault in Basel, either, or there when you went after that gun on the Italian front, but I'm here now." Gambling – correctly – that Garrison's reactions were too slowed to prevent him, he took the glass out of his hands, walked to the open window, and emptied it into the garden beyond, taking care not to let more than a flash of light show.

"Get out," Garrison growled at him, reaching for the bottle.

Actor got there first. "No," he said, to both order and intention, moving the bottle out of reach.

"Then go to hell – or back to Alcatraz, whichever you prefer."

"That might scare Goniff," Actor said, "but not me." He took Garrison's hands in his. They were cold and shaking a little. "Talk to me. Tell me why you're so upset."

Garrison pulled free. "Go away, Actor," he muttered, but this time it was unconvincing. He'd recognised that it wasn't going to work.

"You've got to talk to someone, Lieutenant. You've scared Goniff stupid – or stupider than usual. At least he had the sense to realise he couldn't handle you in this mood. Casino would shout back at you, and I don't think that's what you need. Nor can you afford to let Chief see just how vulnerable you can be. Of course, there's Colonel Yates—"

"Don't you dare!"

"I'll call him if I have to. I mean that, Lieutenant. Either you talk to me or I pick up the phone and get the Colonel down here."

Garrison's eyes were chips of granite. "You stop taking my orders and you stop being of use to me, or the Army. Now get out."

Actor's shoulders slumped. "Okay, if you feel that way about it." He reached for the phone and jiggled the rest. "Kathy, could you get me Colonel Yates at AI HQ, plea—"

Garrison lunged towards the desk to stop him, and would have fallen if Actor hadn't dropped the phone and caught him instead. "What is it?"

Garrison's face was chalk white. "Feel sick."

"Thank God," Actor said, hauling him over to the window, pushing the Blackout curtain aside and leaning him over the sill. Making sure no light could escape, he sat on the sill, rubbing Garrison's back and waiting for him to finish. Once he was sure he had emptied his stomach completely, he half-carried him back inside, sat him down on a sofa so decrepit that the house's owners hadn't bothered to put into store when they lent the place for the war effort, and gave him a glass of water to occupy him while he fetched a wet flannel and towel. It was a measure of how weak illness and drink had made him that Garrison allowed Actor to use both without even a murmur of protest.

"Thank you." It was a whisper. "I'm sorry..." Then, as if noticing Actor's sartorial splendour for the first time, "You were going out..."

"It's okay."

"Your date..."

"She'll keep. And if she does not." Actor shrugged. "There are plenty of other women. But there's only one of you, Lieutenant. Though," he added tartly, "there might have been none at all if I hadn't come in."

Garrison shook his head, and winced. "Mistake," he said, suddenly sounding much more drunk than he had before. "Be okay."

"Maybe. But you're going to feel worse before you feel better, so just do as I tell you."

He got a little lopsided grin, and a sarcastic, "All these... _SS_ roles... gettin' t'you," which made him feel a lot more confident. 

"Drink your water," he said. Dehydration was the first problem. Garrison was chilled, too, but with all the other drugs in his system, even coffee might be dangerous and he might not be able to keep that down. Actor got on the intercom. "Goniff?"

He must have been waiting by the squawk box. "Here."

"Make the Warden some tea, would you? Weak. Lots of milk."

"Coming up." Goniff sounded relieved to be doing something.

Actor knew exactly how he felt. He went back to Garrison and wrapped his own jacket round his shoulders, trying to stop him shivering.

 

The three men stared down at the doctored picture with identical glum expressions. At Heinzel's instruction, it had acquired darker and slightly longer hair, a neat moustache, and some lines around the eyes that Krantz had suggested would add the years that Heinzel had insisted it needed. Von Staaden thought it looked like a caricature. It didn't seem to have helped Heinzel, either, for he spread his hands wide and said, "I'm sorry. I thought for a moment... but it is gone."

It took all von Staaden's strength of will not to order him shot. Instead, he said, calmly, "Very well, _Herr_ Heinzel. Let's forget it. Give me your report." 

Heinzel had been talking for only a couple of minutes when he stopped short and exclaimed, "That's it!" 

"What?"

"That picture. Before the war, in Berlin. You may remember I was with the Foreign Ministry?"

"An American specialist, yes. Which is why you are now working for me."

"This portrait," Heinzel tapped the doctored sketch, "looks much like an official at the American Embassy some ten years ago. Now, let me see, what was his name? He was much older even then than the man in your sketch, though, _Herr_ von Staaden, and darker..." He squeezed the bridge of his nose between his fingers. "What was it? James or was it Jerome? No, that was a Britisher. James Garrison."

"Our man is in his twenties," Krantz said.

"Our man speaks German like a native, not like someone taught in school. _Herr_ Heinzel, did _Herr_ Garrison have a family?"

Heinzel thought hard. "He had a wife, certainly. I remember her. A lovely and gracious lady. He may well have had children, though whether they were in Berlin—"

"Krantz, find out. And check the name 'Garrison' in our own indexes."

"At once," Krantz said, and disappeared out of the office door so quickly he let it slam behind him.

 

Actor still hadn't succeeded in stilling Garrison's shivering when Goniff arrived, tray balanced on one hand with a professional waiter's technique he'd had to learn quickly for a job in Istanbul. The tray went on the desk with a flourish, and one of the two mugs into Garrison's hands, which were shaking enough to make Actor fear he might spill the tea and scald his fingers. "You drink that," Goniff instructed. "Put 'air on yer chest. Blinking country runs on it."

"Goniff..." Garrison's gaze was a good deal steadier than his voice. One of the most admirable things about him, Actor thought, was that his courage wasn't just – or even mainly – physical. "Thank you. I'm sorry I yell—"

"S'okay," Goniff said, breaking the eye contact and shuffling his feet. "You feelin' better?"

"Much. Thanks to you and Actor." It was almost certainly a lie, but a brave one.

The phone rang. Garrison's head jerked up in alarm as Goniff reached out to pick it up. "Lieutenant Garrison's office," he said, in a voice that had suddenly developed English Public School tones. He dropped them quickly enough. "Oh, 'ello, Kathy. I'll arsk." He looked across at Garrison and Actor. "Kathy says she tried to get Colonel Yates, but 'e ain't in. D'y' want 'er to track 'im down or—"

"No," Actor said, squeezing Garrison's arm to reassure him. "Thank her, but tell her to forget about it, okay."

"Sure." Goniff repeated the message, with embellishments of a chat-up nature just to keep his hand in, though Kathy was twice his age and comfortable rather than pretty. He then lifted an eyebrow at Actor, meaning, "D'you need me here?" and looked relieved at the response, a flicker of Actor's eyes towards the door. He made his way out, with an admonition to Actor not to keep Garrison up any later.

Resisting the temptation to throw something at him, Actor sat on the edge of the desk and picked up the second mug. It was coffee; black, strong and sweet. Goniff plainly felt that he needed to be kept awake. Sometimes the second-storey man showed surprising sagacity. Perhaps there was more to him than there seemed.

There was always more to Garrison. Actor watched him warily; the more sober he became the more he would be in control and the less likely Actor himself was to get to the bottom of this. He would have to keep pushing. "So," he said, "now are you going to tell me what this is all about?"

Garrison's return stare was wide-eyed and innocent. "I'm drunk," he said sedately. "Thought we'd agreed on that." He took another gulp of tea, plainly pleased with himself.

"Yes, but why did you get drunk?"

Eyelashes shielded the expression in the darkened eyes as Garrison suddenly found something very interesting in the bottom of his mug. "No reason."

"Warden, I'm not your commanding officer. You can't get away with 'No excuses, sir,' to me."

"Oh? You don't seem t'want... to obey my orders, either."

"Name me a mission where I disobeyed your orders," Actor shot back angrily, "or even argued with them in front of the others."

Garrison's eyes closed for a moment. "I know," he said. He looked up, all sincerity again. "Rely on you, Actor. But this is... none of your business.

They could go on fencing like this all night, or until Garrison fell asleep from exhaustion. Perhaps, though, Actor thought, he had just been given a glimpse of the weak spot in his opponent's defence: his – unspoken – emotional commitment to all of them. He'd have to go for that, then, even if it meant dropping his own guard so completely he would be defenceless.

Dangerous. Garrison drunk was one thing. Garrison sober was perfectly capable of trading on admitted vulnerability to achieve a higher goal.

So, a gamble, then.

Recklessly, Actor laid his hands on Garrison's shoulders, forcing him to look into his face by sheer will. "Okay. Shall we try truth from at least one of us? It's my business because you are the man I respect most in the world and, more than that, because I could not love you more if you were my brother."

For some reason, it was the wrong thing to say. "Don't con me, Actor," Garrison snapped, jerking away.

Impulsively, Actor did what he would not have believed anyone would dare to do and wrapped his arms tightly around the younger man. He felt him flinch and cursed himself for forgetting the unhealed bullet wound that was at least partly responsible for his present condition.

"Sorry..." He shifted his grip, astonished that Garrison had not torn himself free. "Didn't mean to hurt you." He rubbed the other man's back with one hand, taking care not to jolt his shoulder again. "You have nothing to prove to me. Let go. It's quite safe. I don't have any illusions left about you, Warden. I've worked with you too long and too closely."

There was a small chuckle from somewhere near his collarbone. "So much for command mystique."

"That's better. I know you're vulnerable. Admitting it won't lessen you in my eyes, any more than my admitting it would in yours. Now, tell me about your brother." It was not that much of a deduction, after Garrison's reaction to his words.

"He's dead," Garrison said flatly, but he was still huddled against Actor's chest, and the other man knew he'd finally won. Damn. His first instinct had been to offer physical comfort and he'd squashed it dead as impractical and dangerous, but it was plainly exactly what Garrison needed. 

"I'm sorry... I'm so sorry," he crooned, easing down onto the sofa beside him, careful not to break his grip or disturb him too much. This was going to take some time. "What happened?"

"What... d'you expect? This damned war..."

"Tell me about him," Actor ordered. "I know it hurts, Warden – believe me, I know – but these wounds heal better if you clean them. Trust me. What was his name?"

"Kenny... Kenneth... He was... nearly three years younger... than... than I am. He was in the Pacific... with the Marines. Japanese shell... hit their transport... directly... in... in the boiler. Exploded. Sank with all hands— Oh, shit, Actor, are you _trying_ to make me cry?"

"No, but would it matter if you did?"

There was no answer for what seemed like a long time, while Garrison's breathing steadied. When he spoke, his voice was close to normal. "I don't know why I'm reacting so badly. Kenny... we weren't close."

"Well, over two years living on the edge of death with hardly a break _and_ a serious bullet wound might have something to do with it," Actor said tartly, with a hug to show he didn't mean it as criticism. "Not to mention the medication." After a while, he added, "That's the problem with families, they keep a death grip on your feelings even when you don't like them much. You didn't, did you? Like Kenneth, that is?"

"No. Too little in common, too much rivalry." It was the usual astute Garrison assessment, and it made Actor smile genuinely for the first time since he had entered the room.

"Too close in age. I loved my little brother and sister, but they were eight years younger—" Actor pulled himself up. This wasn't about his wounds, but Garrison's. "Do you have any more brothers or sisters?"

A headshake.

"Have you heard from your parents?"

"Not yet."

Actor thought about how nearly it had been Garrison who died on that last mission, thought about his parents and what it would have been like to lose two sons in the course of a couple of weeks.

"But they know you're okay?"

"Yeah. I wrote from the hospital."

Before he got the news of his brother's death, then, but at least they wouldn't still be wondering if they had any children left. "That's good. We won't tell them you tried to drink yourself to death, umm?"

For the first time, Garrison's head jerked up. Though his eyes were bright, he hadn't actually been crying. "Actor..." he began, threateningly, but then he smiled. "Who'd believe you?"

"Everyone. That's what being a confidence man is about."

Garrison nodded, winced, closed his eyes and dropped his head back on Actor's shoulder. "God, I feel awful."

"I know. It'll pass. Try to sleep."

"Don't go away."

"I won't."

After a while, when Garrison's breathing slowed, and a whisper of "Warden?" brought no response, Actor finally relaxed. He sat unmoving on the old sofa for a long time, in the soft light reflected from the polished surface of the desk, with Garrison still in his arms.

He knew he ought to put him to bed and let him sleep in peace, but he found himself reluctant to risk disturbing him, despite the discomfort of his own position.

It was as if a wild tiger had suddenly licked your hand, then settled itself down beside you, put its head in your lap and purred. There was the same astonishment, and fear, and pride that you should be the one chosen. He wanted the experience to go on as long as possible.

He was still savouring it when Garrison muttered something unintelligible, and unexpectedly shoved his shoulder against him, forcing him sideways down the sofa back until his head was stopped by the arm, as he tried to cushion Garrison enough to stop him waking up. Their undignified slide had turned Garrison enough in Actor's arms so he lay along his body. His eyes were still closed, eyelids flickering in dream, as he continued to mumble and writhe restlessly against Actor, who, still unwilling to wake him, tried to find a more comfortable position for them both except—

Actor froze. Garrison's movements were now recognisably sexual, his groin half-hard against Actor's thigh.

Deciding to take action before things became embarrassing, Actor eased out from under him, laid him as flat as possible considering that the sofa was only five feet long and Garrison over six, and found a greatcoat in lieu of a blanket to cover him.

Once no longer in contact with a warm body, Garrison's dream died, or transmuted itself into something less erotic, and he slept deeply and peacefully.

Actor watched him, amused to think that in Garrison's dream he had been turned into some beautiful woman. He was sure that Garrison would not settle for anything less than beauty.

He didn't talk about his women, though, had a tendency to keep his private life private. Until today, Actor had known nothing about his family that could not be deduced from his attitudes. It was a stance he both respected and understood, one he adopted himself about the time before he became 'Actor'. Garrison's reasons, though, were unlikely to be his. Actor's guess was that it was simply that his duty – which he took very seriously – came first.

Though there had been occasions when that particular mask had slipped too.

Complex bastard.

But it wouldn't be half as much fun trying to figure him out if he wasn't, and figuring Garrison out was one of the mental exercises that kept him sane in those boring periods between the intense excitement of their missions. It looked as if this might be a long one.

Actor appropriated Garrison's chair, leaned back, put his feet on the table and lit his pipe.

Might as well get some practice.

 

**Chapter 2**

 

"James Garrison had two sons," Krantz reported, "and both were with him and his wife in Berlin. Their names were Craig and Kenneth. You think our man is one of them?"

Von Staaden smiled affectionately at his aide. "You think I'm clutching at straws, my Krantz?"

"Far from it," Krantz said grimly. "The name 'Garrison' is on our indexes, mentioned in _Gestapo_ interrogations of traitors in France twice, and once even here in Germany. Lieutenant Garrison. And..." He hesitated. "You are not going to like this, sir."

"I like nothing connected with these people. Tell me anyway."

"We appear actually to have had our hands on him over a year ago," Krantz said, getting the bad news out up front. "A partisan leader called Erlan was snatched from a prison convoy in Norway. A few hours later one of the men apparently involved was captured by the Prison Kommandant, one _Oberst_ Manstreeling. The prisoner was interrogated, but would only give name, rank and serial number."

"Lieutenant Garrison." It wasn't even a question.

"Yes. He was rescued by what are described as 'partisans posing as _SS_ '."

"Over a year ago. They couldn't have been operational for very long. This man Manstreeling could have nipped it in the bud. Where is he now?"

"Six feet underground. He was killed trying to give the alarm." It was Krantz's opinion that Manstreeling was lucky to be dead rather than facing von Staaden's displeasure.

"Very well. So our lead is still Berlin ten years ago. Heinzel is no use to us – far too old. What we need is someone who knew the Garrison boys – a contemporary, ideally a friend. Start with the Foreign Ministry people. The Diplomatic community tends to stick together. Someone may remember the name of Germans friendly with the Garrisons. Oh, and check the Security records of the time. No doubt someone was reporting on the US Embassy staff and their friends. Well, go on. What're you waiting for?"

 

Watching Garrison though clouds of smoke and affection, Actor was drifting into a doze himself when he was woken first by the sound of air raid sirens, then by the distinctive chug-chug of a V1, noises that they had become used to, and present all night, on and off, but this sounded much too—

The chugging noise stopped abruptly.

Seconds later, the room blazed with red light that forced its way through the Blackout curtain, a herald to the ear-shattering drum roll that wasn't thunder. Actor, alerted by the cessation of the rocket engine, was moving before it came, snatching Garrison from the couch and dragging him under the table. The blast completed the job for him as the Blackout curtain shredded in the hail of glass from the shattered window.

Rolling with the force of the shock wave, Actor tried to shield Garrison with his body as the ceiling followed them down, dropping a blanket over his senses.

Later, he insisted that he'd never blacked out completely but, when he regained touch with reality, the thunder had ended to be replaced by voices.

The one that had been calling his name at first was very close, the other further away and muffled by something. It was also at an odd angle.

"Warden! That you?" Yes, the voice was definitely coming from above.

"Goniff, are you all right?" That one, equally familiar, was shouting right in his ear.

"Deafened and bruised all over, but you ain't got me killed this time. What about you an' Actor?"

"I'm okay, but Actor's out cold."

"No I'm not," Actor said, surprised at how difficult it was to make his voice work.

He felt as well as heard Garrison's intake of breath. The other man was lying beside him and half under him, but there was something hard and heavy on top of them both, as well as various lumpy objects that dug into every portion of his anatomy.

"So you're back with us," the Lieutenant said, the flippancy failing to conceal his relief. "No, don't move yet. Goniff, what's the situation?"

 

Goniff peered down through the hole in the floor at his feet, trying to make sense of the tumble of wood and plaster in the narrow beam from his flashlight. "'Alf the ceiling's down," he reported, "but that's mostly plaster. This part of the house ain't as strong as the old bit. If the stone floors'd fallen, you'd be jelly. Where are you?"

"I wish I knew."

"Under the table," Actor said.

"I can see it. It's at an angle. Leg's gone, I guess. 'Alf a mo an' we'll 'ave you out of there." Carefully, he tested a surviving beam, edged out a couple of feet, then swung off the edge and lowered himself until he could drop the four feet or so to the floor, which creaked alarmingly, but held.

"I can see your light," Garrison observed.

"Goodo." Goniff surveyed the table, or what he could see of it under the pile of plaster. "Y'know, Warden, I always figured Actor could drink you under the table, but 'e didn't 'ave to go this far to prove it." As he was speaking, he began to lift away the broken plaster and wood. "This is like a bleeding jigsaw. You'll 'ave to be patient – if I'm not careful the lot'll fall on top of you."

In fact, it took him less than two minutes to clear a space, find a length of wood to act as a lever, and lift the table enough for Garrison and Actor to crawl out.

"Place isn't safe. Out of the window," Goniff ordered, and the other two didn't argue. Most of the frame had gone the same way as the glass, and Goniff showed scant regard for the remaining Eighteenth century woodwork in smashing the rest. Between them, he and Actor hauled Garrison out and clear of the building.

"Casino? Chief?" Garrison panted, leaning an elbow on Goniff's shoulder as Actor dusted himself off fastidiously.

"Chief 'adn't got back, an' Casino's still down at the village."

"Hasn't the pub shut yet?" Garrison asked, still plainly more than a little disoriented.

"It's nearly dawn," said Actor.

Instinctively, all three men looked to the flicker of red beyond the Manor's trees that ran in a long slope down to the village. Garrison took a deep breath, straightened, and said, "Goniff, find the Sergeant Major. He's to meet me out front. Actor, you okay to drive?"

"In better shape than you are," Actor snapped.

"Then see if any of the jeeps are still with us, and if they are bring one around the front too. With a first aid kit, if you can find one. If any of the guys are down there, fetch them as well. Now, get moving, both of you!"

Actor was plainly thinking about arguing. Goniff figured that Garrison could probably walk the thirty yards or so unaided, and it wasn't worth the hassle arguing with him about it. He took off as ordered. Moments later, Actor followed.

 

With a jeep safely retrieved and a quartet of soldiers crammed in the back, he arrived on the front lawn to find Garrison addressing the Sergeant Major. "Once you're sure everyone's safe, bring the guard down to the minimum you need to keep people away from the place – for their own safety as much as anything – and get everyone down to the village to help fight the fires."

The Sergeant Major nodded approval. "Very good, sir. 'Adn't you better call Colonel Yates—?

"Call him for me," Garrison ordered, as he swung aboard – a good deal less agilely than usual. "Carry on, Sergeant Major. Actor..."

The Sergeant Major's arm flippered a salute in acknowledgement as Actor put his foot down and the jeep roared away.

 

As he drove down the familiar drive in the greying light, Actor wondered just what Garrison thought he was going to contribute. Right now the Lieutenant was operating on an excess of adrenaline and would pay heavily for it later. No doubt he regarded that as irrelevant with civilian lives at stake. In principle, Actor agreed with him, but his emotions were screaming contradiction.

When was it that Garrison had come to mean so much to him?

Never mind that. What he had to figure out was how to keep him away from the fires and the search through the rubble.

 

As they reached the village, the local Air Raid Warden – better known to all of them as the landlord of their favoured pub, the Doves – flagged them down. "Thank God," he said. "No fire at the Manor?"

"No," Garrison replied. "The rest of our people will be down here shortly. Use them as you see fit."

"Thanks, Lieutenant. We've got three thatch fires. We need men to pull it down before it spreads."

"On your way, boys," Garrison said to his passengers, feeling Actor's hand land on his shoulder in what was probably a prelude to physical restraint. As the Air Raid Warden made to leave, he called to him, "Do you have casualties?"

"Yes, sir. Dr Raymond's treating them in the Church Hall." The words were thrown over his shoulder as he accelerated into a dead run.

"Actor, get round there and see if you can help," he ordered. "Oh, and come back for the jeep if ferrying casualties'll be quicker than waiting for the ambulance to arrive."

Actor had bounced out of the jeep, but now he hesitated, looking down uneasily at Garrison. "You'll stay here?" he asked uncertainly.

"At least until the Sergeant Major arrives with the rest of the boys—"

"Lieutenant—"

"Actor, we don't have time for this now..."

Actor was no longer listening. Feeling something tugging at his pants leg, he had looked down to see a grubby child of indeterminate sex, wearing a dressing gown over pyjamas, hugging what he at first took to be a toy panda to its chest.

"Have you seen my mummy, mister?" this apparition asked plaintively.

Actor bent to the child's level, discovering, as the 'toy' opened inimical green eyes and glared at him, that it was, in fact, carrying a large and malevolent-looking cat. "No, I'm afraid I haven't," he replied gravely. "When did you see her last?"

"In the Anderson. But she was asleep, an' I heard the bangs, an' Fluffy was outside so I went to look for him. Mummy says cats don't like loud noises. When I found him an' went back, Mummy wasn't there."

"Well, I think she's probably looking for you." Actor picked up both child and cat and dumped them in Garrison's lap. "Stay here, love. The Lieutenant will look after you until we find your Mum." He blithely ignored Garrison's glare over the child's tousled head and strode off towards the Church Hall. The kid would provide a wonderful anchor.

 

Well aware of Actor's stratagem, but secretly relieved that he had such a good excuse for not moving, Garrison settled the child more comfortably, and said, "What's your name, then?"

"Not telling. What's yours?"

"You tell me first."

They stared into each other's eyes, equally stubborn.

"You're an Am... Amer... a Yank?"

Garrison grinned. "Sort of."

"From the Manor?"

"Yes."

"Mummy says there's something awful funny going on up there."

"Your mummy is quite right," Garrison agreed, fervently. "Let's hope she gets here soon."

Very soon.

 

"Mister... Mister..."

Garrison came fully awake with a yelp of pain as something tugged his right arm, instantly alert to defend himself.

But it was only the child, who said, "Sorry, Mister. I didn't meanta hurt you."

"You didn't," Garrison lied. "What is it?"

"There's a funny noise coming from the church."

"Oh?" Garrison peered at the grubby face closely. The light was still fairly dim, so he could not have been dozing for long, but mist was rolling low across the Green, blotting out the cosy houses and two pubs, though the church tower was still visible. It was some distance away, too. "Oh, and how do you know that?" he asked suspiciously.

"Fluffy wanted to go for a walk. Then he hiddied away. He likes to play hide and seek in the churchyard. Then I heard the funny noise. It sounded nasty."

Garrison sighed mentally. The only noises he could hear came from the fire fighters and these, he suspected, were what the child had heard. But someone had to investigate, and he could hardly take anyone away from urgent work on a kid's word just because he felt tired.

And hung over.

Serves me right, I suppose, he thought, as he eased himself out of the jeep and offered his hand to the child. "Show me."

 

The churchyard would have made a suitable set for a Bela Lugosi movie – dank and dark and dripping, its gravestones wreathed in mist that muffled all the noises from far away. The child led him on through the undergrowth with scant regard for his height or unfamiliarity with the territory. By the time they drew close to the rear of the church he was wishing he had sent someone else on this particular errand. 

As he leaned against a buttress to catch his breath, the child looked up at him and announced, "It's stopped," in obvious disappointment. "D'you suppose it was a ghost?" This last with great relish.

"I wouldn't think so," Garrison said. "I– " He was interrupted by a muffled voice cursing ferociously in a New York accent somewhere close at hand. 

"It's using very naughty words," the child said primly.

Garrison suppressed a grin. "Then we'll have to tell it to stop, won't we? Let's find it."

The voice was coming from a wooden hatchway let into the earth beside a ramshackle structure held up only by the side of the church against which it had been not so much built as thrown, the whole screened by holly bushes that seemed a lot more stable. A padlock lay on the ground beside it, and one of the two hatch doors was open.

Even if Garrison hadn't recognised the voice still emanating from the hatchway, the padlock alone would have told him who was likely to be below.

He hauled up the second hatch door and peered down.

Standing knee-deep in the wartime-depleted pile of coal were Casino and a pretty young woman. Both were clad in nothing but a layer of coal dust.

Garrison didn't have the breath left to laugh, so he sat back on his heels and committed the sight to memory.

Casino glared at him. "Whatever you're going to say, Warden, for God's sake say it an' get it over with. We're freezin' down here."

"How did you get there?" Garrison asked mildly.

"We were in the church porch – an' never you mind what we were doing—"

"In a church, Casino?"

"Ain't nothing wrong with churches. Last service is at eight. It's warm an' dry an' anyway, it's none of your damn business. Then these fucking – sorry, honey – these lousy Jerry V-bombs started going off, an' we needed to get below ground an'—"

"Can you get us out?" the woman asked plaintively. 

"What about the door?" 

"It's locked."

Garrison raised an eyebrow. "That doesn't normally stop Casino."

"An' bolted from the outside," Casino told him, affronted. "Feels like there's something wedged against it too."

"The vicar ordered that. Mummy says the bad boys climb down into the cellar to steal the coal," the child chipped in, making Casino jump horribly and consequently slither down the coal heap in a welter of curses. "That lady and gentleman haven't got no clothes on," the child observed, without any hint of censure.

"Which means it's rude to stare."

"You're staring."

"Which doesn't mean you should," Garrison said firmly. "Do you know where there's a ladder?" he added hurriedly.

"The Sexton keeps one in the porch, but it's chained up."

"Figures. Casino, got your lockpick?"

"Yeah, but if I throw it to you an' you drop it, I'll never see it again."

"Faith, Casino, faith." Garrison pulled his handkerchief from his pocket, wrapped it round a pebble, and dropped both down the coal hole. "Tie the lockpick inside that, with the pebble, and throw it back to me."

"You're too blasted clever for your own good, you know that?" Casino demanded, doing as he was bid. "But you'd better drop our clothes down here to us if we're going to have to wait for you to pick a lock."

"Doesn't say much for your teaching if I can't," Garrison said, with a grin, and departed before Casino could think of a comeback.

 

Garrison found the ladder easily enough. Picking the lock should have been as easy, but he found he couldn't focus for more than a few seconds, and ended up relying purely on feel.

He had started to wonder if he should have sent the child back with Casino's and the girl's clothing when the padlock sprang open with a satisfying clunk.

It wasn't a bad idea, anyhow, so he gave the child the folded clothing to carry, then picked up the ladder with his left hand and started over to the coal-cellar.

It wasn't anything like as easy as he'd anticipated. All his strength seemed to have drained away, and the ladder proved impossible to balance. Nor did the child's silently critical gaze help matters.

Finally, he was forced to move to one end of the ladder and drag it over the uneven ground. He was extremely grateful to reach the hatchway, despite the struggle needed to tip the end of the ladder into it. Once over, though, it slid neatly into place. Thirty seconds later, Casino and the girl were out, had retrieved their clothes and retreated into the bushes to don them.

Grateful for the pause, Garrison sat down on one of the local coffee-table-like gravestones, untroubled by what lay beneath, and tried to get his breath back. He hadn't managed it when hands landed on his shoulders, and he looked up into Casino's angry brown eyes. The glare was a signal that the safecracker had finally registered the anomaly of his presence. "What the hell are you doing here, anyway, Warden?"

"Getting you out of a hole," Garrison said, grinning, despite the way the churchyard had started to spin round him and that whatever was banging inside his skull had suddenly acquired a large hammer and been dosed with Benzedrine.

"Sure someone didn't haul you outa one of these graves first?" Casino demanded, hooking an arm around Garrison's waist to lift him to his feet. "You've been drinking!"

"So have you."

"Are the rest of the guys out of their minds? I thought Chief was looking—" Casino bit off his diatribe, aware that Garrison was in no state to listen to it. "How did you get here?"

"Jeep. Over on the Green."

"We were waiting for my mummy," the child said helpfully. 

"Then we'd better go back and meet her, hadn't we? Honey, hang onto the kid, willya. Dammit, Warden, ain't you got more sense than this?"

"Would you... rather be... still down in that cellar?"

"Rather that than Chief's shiv in my back if you kill yourself," Casino retorted. "Com'on. Lean on me and we'll get you back to the jeep."

In truth, Garrison didn't feel like arguing. He hung onto Casino as grimly as he was hanging on to consciousness, and onto the comforting sound of the safecracker's voice as it continued to scold him.

"He didn't seem drunk before," the girl's voice said, in one of the pauses while Casino gathered breath.

"He ain't drunk," Casino snapped back, plainly defensive. "He took a slug a couple of weeks back. Shouldn't even be on his feet, let alone crawling round a graveyard at dawn. If you catch pneumonia on top of everything else, Warden, I ain't going to be held responsible. Com'on, just a bit further. I can see the jeep. Here we go."

The step into the jeep suddenly seemed like Everest, but Casino's hands lifted and steadied him, then eased him down into the back, where he curled on himself against the cold and the pain, hugging in the new certainty of affection as an emotional blanket. In his depression, he'd believed that no-one cared anymore whether he lived or died. Goniff and Actor, and now Casino, had shown him how mistaken he was.

Guiltily, he remembered Chief's reiterated, "You sure you're okay, Warden?" yesterday afternoon, until he'd gotten tired of it and sent him off on the spurious errand that had, at least, meant he was out of the Manor when the V1 hit.

Chief was going to be furious with him too but, like Casino and Actor, he wouldn't be angry if he didn't care.

Right now, Garrison was happy to settle for that.

A hand lifted his head and eased something soft beneath it. When the improvised pillow was followed by coverings of some sort, he tried to proffer thanks, only to be told with rough affection to "Go to sleep, babe. We'll look after things here."

He was only too happy to obey.

 

Casino was jumping out of the jeep when Actor arrived with a plump, pretty and harassed woman in tow.

"Mummy!" the child said, in plain disappointment, as the woman gripped its hand and smiled thanks at Casino and his girlfriend. "Can't I stay here?"

"No you can't, come along at once."

"But I haven't found Fluffy—"

"He'll be at home, just you wait and see."

"But we found this gentleman an' lady an' they hadn't got no clothes on an'—"

"I never heard such rubbish! What you need is a bath and a proper sleep-"

Satisfied they were on the move, Actor turned to Casino, who had dismissed his girl with a pat on the rump and a "Be seein' yu, doll."

"Where's the Warden?"

"Asleep in back."

"Thank God."

"That might be a bit previous, pal." Casino would have elaborated but for the arrival of Goniff and Chief, the former limping and blackened with soot that told its own story, the latter by jeep at a speed that probably stripped its tyres of their tread as he braked to a sliding, twisting stop. He bounced out of the driving seat demanding, "What the hell were you guys thinkin' of, lettin' the Warden come down here?"

Actor gave him a cold look. "You were the one who left him alone."

"Where is he?"

Casino jerked a thumb at the jeep. Unwilling to take his word for it, Chief went to look. Goniff, peering over his shoulder, echoed Actor's, "Thank God for that. 'E bin 'ere all the time?"

"I hope so," said Actor, but Casino shook his head.

"Uhuh. You didn't really expect him to stay put, didya, buddy?"

"He was supposed to be looking after the child."

"Well, one of 'em led the other astray. He's been drinkin' too. I could smell it on his breath."

"Yeah, we know." Goniff turned to Actor. "You find out what started him off?"

Actor nodded. "You'd better know, I think, though I don't suppose he'll thank me for telling you; his brother's just been killed out in the Pacific theatre."

"Shit! The poor kid." Actor had never heard Casino – or anyone else come to that – dare to refer to Garrison in those terms before.

"I didn't even know 'e 'ad a brother," said Goniff. "When did they tell 'im?"

"Must've been in that letter this mornin'." Everyone looked at Chief. "Was waitin' for him when he got in. I noticed it 'cause it didn't have no censor's stamp. Cain't've come through normal channels. He seemed kinda upset when he read it."

"Well, for God's sake why didn't you ask him about it?" Actor exploded.

"I did. He said he was okay."

"Well he wasn't," Actor snapped, thoroughly exasperated.

"Man's got a right to his privacy."

Actor took a deep breath in order to stop the angry words bubbling out. Chief cared as much, or more, for Garrison as he did, but saw him very differently. Nor was it any use trying to reconcile those views. Chief's faith had to be left intact for his own stability. Actor had received Garrison's opinion about this very bluntly one rainy afternoon when boredom had tempted him into a series of subtle attacks on Chief's idealised view of his commander.

_"You push him over the edge, Actor and, if he doesn't kill you, I'll take you apart. This is the first real chance Chief's ever had to be normal. Every time he's tried before the people he trusted let him down – I won't allow that to happen this time."_

_"What about the strain on you?" Actor had asked. "You can't go on being perfect for him."_

_"I don't have to. He'll rationalise my mistakes for his own sake. Look, I need his skills, Actor. We all do. And I want to release him back into society sane and safe, if not honest."_

Actor still wasn't sure that was possible, but he had to admit that Chief was making a real effort to be what he thought Garrison wanted. If he didn't understand Garrison's vulnerability it was because the Lieutenant arranged it that way.

He decided to let it lie.

"Well, if you're all quite finished, maybe we'd better get back to the mansion," Casino said acidly.

"Wouldn't do much good, mate," Goniff told him, with relish. "Ain't much of it left. We got doodlebugged, too."

"You're kidding... You ain't kiddin'?"

"Unfortunately not," Actor said. "I'm not sure how much damage there is, but—"

He was interrupted by the arrival of the Sergeant Major. "Where's the Lieutenant?" he demanded, looking around as if he suspected them of disposing of Garrison in the duck pond.

"He's asleep." Actor jerked a thumb at the jeep.

"Thank Gawd," the Sergeant Major said, voicing what was becoming a ritual response. "Got some orders for him from Colonel Yates, but 'e said that if the Lieutenant couldn't take 'em, you were to ring 'im at once, Actor."

"At once," Actor confirmed, with more confidence than he felt. He had the awful feeling that Yates was going to hold him responsible for not restraining Garrison. Though no more responsible than he held himself.

 

It had been a long time since von Staaden had had to reassure anyone, but the man Krantz had settled in the chair opposite him was plainly nervous. He was very young. Too young, von Staaden decided, with a quick glance at the drawing – now neatly framed – sitting on his desk. The man of the portrait had some years advantage on this one, to judge by the maturity of his expression. Or maybe he was simply more experienced; war did that to people.

To lessen any threat, he rose and perched on the edge of the desk, sideways on to the young man. Following his lead, Krantz leaned one shoulder against the wall and stared over their heads at the mountains visible through the window.

"Your name is Manfred Jaenicke?" Von Staaden kept his tone conversational.

Jaenicke didn't. His, "Yes, _Herr_ von Staaden," was formal in the extreme.

"Relax, _Herr_ Jaenicke. Have a cigarette. Tell me about your childhood in Berlin before the war. You were friendly with some children of diplomats from the American Embassy, two boys called Garrison, I believe?"

Jaenicke almost froze. It was with a great effort that he took the offered cigarette and allowed Krantz to light it for him. "We were just children. We knew no secrets – and we certainly didn't suspect we would be going to war with the Americans—"

Von Staaden had finally seen the reason for the young man's fears. "Your loyalty is not in doubt, _Herr_ Jaenicke. Indeed, you may soon have a chance to demonstrate it more fully. Now," he reached for a copy of Müller's drawing. "Is this man one of the Garrison boys?"

Jaenicke studied the drawing carefully, then laid it aside with a little shake of his head. "I don't know. It is more than ten years since I saw them. We were children then. If it is, it is Craig, not Kenny – Kenneth. Kenneth was – presumably still is – dark. You must understand that Craig is three years older than I. It is a lot to a boy. Kenny and I were closer in age. So were Craig and my brother—"

"So your brother would be able to confirm his identity?" von Staaden asked eagerly.

"Werner is dead. He was shot down over the desert in 1941."

Recognising the anguish in Jaenicke's voice, von Staaden was careful to show the sympathy he felt. "I am sorry, _Herr_ Jaenicke. We have all lost enough family to understand each other's grief. But that makes you all the more vital. Tell me about Craig Garrison ¬– and your brother. They were close in age, you say? And in spirit?"

Jaenicke's mouth twisted wryly. "Very much so. My father used to say that Werner was twice as much trouble as any other boy, but when he was with Craig, they were ten times as much trouble as any other two boys combined."

"At least one of them is still causing trouble," Krantz murmured, just loud enough for von Staaden to hear.

"When Herr Garrison was posted elsewhere, Werner kept in touch with Craig for a while – longer than I did with Kenny – until Craig enrolled at West Point, in fact. That is—"

"I know what West Point is," von Staaden said, with a significant look at Krantz.

Who said: "A point against it being him, perhaps. An officer trained at the American Army's military academy is unlikely to be chosen for such a task."

"That depends." Von Staaden turned his attention back to Jaenicke. "How well did Craig Garrison speak German?"

"As well as I do," Jaenicke said, and this exact repetition of Müller's phrase caused another exchange of glances between the Intelligence officers.

"So, why did your brother and Craig Garrison lose touch. Did they quarrel?"

"Not exactly. Werner had already trained as a pilot and been chosen for the _Luftwaffe_. He and Craig were always hanging about the airfields, even when they were young. Craig's mother was a pilot, like our _Fraulein_ Hanna Reitsch. She was killed when a plane she was testing crashed. Anyway, I never saw the letter Craig sent, but my brother was plainly troubled by it. He said to me that Craig had made his choice, and he had made his, and there could be no peace between them until there was peace between our nations. I said that we were not at war with America. Werner said, 'If Craig is right, we soon will be.' I think one of the things both Kenny and I disliked about Craig was how often he was right."

"Wait," Krantz, who liked to keep things straight, was taking notes. "When did _Frau_ Garrison die?"

"As far as I know she is still alive – Oh, you mean Craig's mother? When he was very tiny, I think. Yes, that must be so, because Kenny is a little older than me, and he is the current _Frau_ Garrison's child."

"Go on."

"I don't know a great deal more. I know there was family trouble over Craig going to West Point. It was understood that Kenneth would be the one to take up a military career, like _his_ mother's grandfather. Craig was to study Law at College and then follow his father into diplomacy or possibly politics..."

Krantz and von Staaden looked at one another and sighed, with one thought in both their minds: _If only he had._

 

**Chapter 3**

 

Garrison been drifting in and out of sleep for a long time, in an unfamiliar bed that was by turns too hot and too cold. The voices that spoke to him were familiar, though. Reassuring enough not to make it worthwhile waking up properly...

When he finally decided that he really had to surface, it was into a darkened room, though something told him it was daylight.

He hurt. His shoulder felt as painful as it had done after Wilder – or whatever his name actually was – had been dragging him by it over what seemed like half of Switzerland.

This wasn't Switzerland, was it? They'd come back to England... or had that all been a dream? 

He tried to shove the bedcovers aside, but a warm hand gently grasped his and held it still. "Easy, Warden." It was Chief's voice. "You stay right where you are." 

Now he looked, Garrison could just make out the shadow of the Indian seated beside the bed. "And where am I?" he asked, with a smile.

"Safe. Just lie quiet while I'm gone," Chief ordered, as he rose to his feet. 

Unwilling to be left alone, Garrison hung onto his hand. "Where... you going?"

"Promised Actor I'd fetch him soon as you woke."

"Why?"

"He don't trust me."

"What?" Garrison was incredulous.

Chief shrugged. "T'stop you bein' stupid, he says. Maybe he's right, Warden. Didn't imagine you'd lie to me."

Damn. He hadn't given a thought to Chief's dependence on him, just to his own troubles. If he'd done him any serious damage, he'd never forgive himself.

"Neither did I. And I honestly thought I could cope better alone. I was wrong on both counts. Forgive me."

Chief shook his head. "Nothing to forgive. You don't owe me no explanations. But I'm real sorry 'bout your brother."

Actor must have told them. Just as well. He didn't want to lie any more to people who so obviously cared about him.

"Thanks, Chief." Realising he was still holding the other man's hand, he squeezed it, then let go. You had to be careful with gestures of affection where Chief was concerned, but he didn't think he'd offended him this time.

Certainly, there was nothing but concern in Chief's voice was he said, "You ain't gonna try t'move if I go get Actor?"

"No. I promise." He held his breath waiting to see if his word would be accepted.

"Okay," Chief said, with a gentle smile that flashed for a moment in the dimness. "Try an' stay awake til he gets here."

Left alone in the room, Garrison made another attempt to identify where he was, and failed. He was sure he'd never been here before. It wasn't a hospital, though – the bed was far too comfortable. Trying to recall how he came to be here was only a little more profitable. Indeed, he could remember rather too much, including some things that surely couldn't be true, could they? The very last thing he recalled, though, was being lifted... out of a... car? Jeep? Ambulance?

He was still puzzling it out when Actor came in, said, "Finally awake, are we?" and, without waiting for an answer, went to the windows and flung back the shabby brocade curtains, revealing rolling downland and a sparkle that might be sea beyond the almost ceiling-high windows. The room was tall, and beautifully proportioned, and looked old but well cared for.

"Actor, where the hell are we?"

Actor didn't answer. Unceremoniously and without so much as a by-your-leave, he sat on the edge of the bed, laid a cool hand on Garrison's forehead for a few seconds, then picked up his wrist and felt for his pulse.

"So, what's the verdict, Doc?" Garrison drawled, movie-tough-guy fashion, in an attempt to lift the mood.

"If you must know, you're still running a fever, and your pulse is far too fast and erratic for my taste. You managed to open your wound again, by the way, probably hauling that ladder around—"

"Actor..." Garrison tried to squirm away, but the other man held onto his wrist rather harder than he needed to.

"I'll have the local GP look at you later. Until he says otherwise, you stay in bed. If you're very, very good, I may let you out to go to the bathroom, but—"

"Actor—"

"If you try to get up before I think you're ready I have Colonel Yates's permission to handcuff you to the bedhead."

Garrison's sense of humour suddenly got the better of his outrage. He chuckled. "All right, Nanny, I'll be good – if you tell me a bedtime story. Well, tell me where we are and why we're here, anyway."

"Nothing to tell. I don't suppose you remember much about it, but our HQ got hit by a V1. This is another war-effort lend building, a little Queen Anne Dower house on the Sussex coast. You're here to recover and we're here because they don't trust us without you to keep us in order."

"Not true, Actor."

"Well, what the Colonel actually said was that we weren't any use to him without you, and that we'd look after you better than any hospital. Mind you, he also informed me that the house has been inventoried down to the nails in the floorboards. Casino and Goniff are so stunned to be living in the lap of luxury that they haven't even thought about valuing the china – which is rather nice Sèvres if not complete. The pictures are third rate – none of them worth more than a few thousand."

"I see," Garrison said grimly. "The Colonel's finally flipped."

"Probably. Or maybe you scared him. You certainly scared me, Lieutenant," Actor added, in the tones of someone to whom this was a profound and distasteful novelty.

The grip on his wrist was now so tight it hurt. Actor meant it.

Maybe he'd meant all he'd said... was it last night? What other reason could there be for him to persist so long in the face of shameful threats? Besides, Garrison could feel the affection wrapped protectively around him the way it had been then.

It deserved acknowledgement. He said, "Actor, about that... Thank you. You've no idea how grateful I am. I needed to hear what you said."

Actor looked down for a moment. "You're even more difficult drunk than sober, Lieutenant – something I wouldn't've thought possible."

"What I said was unforgivable."

"Oh, I don't know." There was a blinding smile on Actor's face as he raised his head to meet Garrison's eyes. "Suitably bribed, I might get around to forgiving you." Suddenly serious, he added, "I meant all I said, for what that is worth."

"I know that."

"So next time you're in trouble, come to me."

Don't make promises you can't keep, Garrison told himself, as he said, carefully, "Where else would I go?"

Actor snorted. "Nowhere, if I know you. I've never met anyone so goddamn sure of his own ability to cope."

If only he knew... but Actor had too much of a hold over him already to confess to the mess he'd made of his personal life. And so here he was deep in selfishness again, lapping up Actor's support and affection and giving damn all in return.

There were good reasons, both professional and personal, why that was the right thing to do, but it didn't make him feel any less of a bastard. For one thing, he was going to have to take action soon to redress the command imbalance this was causing.

"You're a team," he had said, so long ago it seemed, "but with me telling you what to do and when to do it."

Somehow, he'd conned his men into believing it, for some of them into believing he was close to infallible. Not Actor, though. He'd thought at first that Actor wanted to be his second-in-command – and he'd settled for that, eventually – but he'd come to realise recently that what the other man had actually wanted all along was to be his partner. And he couldn't allow that.

Deal with it later. Right now, Actor had released his wrist only to take his hand and lace their fingers together. Something else he didn't ought to allow, but having something to hang onto helped him fight the waves of pain from his abused shoulder.

Ignore both. Think of something else.

Could he really have discovered Casino and a girl naked in a coal cellar? Surely that, at least, must be some sort of mildly erotic fantasy? Only Actor had said he'd opened his wound moving a ladder and the only ladder he recalled had been in the graveyard...

Graveyard?

Forget it. All too complicated. Just lie here for a while and hold onto Actor and let it all drift away.

 

During the days that followed, Actor tried not to reveal his anxiety. He'd expected real difficulties stopping Garrison overtaxing his strength, but he seemed to have accepted that his physical reserves had limits and allowed his gradual return to fitness to be regulated by good sense – his own as often as Actor's.

Sometimes he seemed perfectly normal, making sharp observations about how far radio and newspaper reports of the changing military situation might be trusted, or refereeing spats between Casino and Goniff with the sureness of touch that was his hallmark.

But something had gone.

The others saw it too. They had drawn protectively about him, and he seemed happiest when they were close. In their anxiety not to worry or upset him they clamped down so hard on their instincts that Actor occasionally believed he could hear the ticking in advance of the inevitable explosion.

Somehow, he was going to have to defuse it before Garrison got caught in the blast.

It never occurred to him that he might be the one to set it off.

 

It was nearly three weeks after they had moved into the Dower House. Actor was on his way downstairs when the door opened and a dapper man in the uniform of a United States Army Lieutenant Colonel breezed in.

He was relieved to see Yates, as relieved as he had been when the Colonel had once again taken command of this particular patch of Allied Intelligence – the Crazies, as the special units had been dubbed – particularly as his stand-in, one Major Johns, had plainly disliked the idea in general, the Gorillas in particular, and Garrison personally.

Having to fight his command line as often as the Germans had drained him faster than anything else.

Yates, though, regarded Garrison as a favoured, if somewhat wayward, son. His, "How's he doing, Actor?" was heartfelt.

"It's a slow process," Actor replied. "He isn't bouncing back the way he used to."

"Can he take a shock?"

Actor paused in mid-step. "How bad a shock?"

"I wish I knew. It may be nothing at all, but we won't know unless we ask him."

"He's..." Actor hesitated. "Fragile, Colonel. The wound was nothing – he's taken worse—"

"I could kill Johns. You don't use a fine weapon for indiscriminate hacking – it'll do the job, but it'll either blunt or shatter. Don't worry, Actor. He's not going back into the field until he's ready. Do you have any idea what the real problem is?"

"Stress and fatigue, I think, and his brother's death hit him very hard."

Yates raised an eyebrow. "Really? I thought he was coping with that remarkably well, coming so soon after Richard Ward's death."

"Richard Ward?" Actor asked, before he remembered. He'd not met the man, of course...

"Captain Ward, the officer Lieutenant Garrison was supposed to rescue in Italy, behind the Gustav Line, about three months back."

"Yes, I remember. I wasn't there, but Goniff said the Lieutenant was upset. I gather he and Ward were close." Searching his memory, he dragged up something else Goniff had said. "They'd been at West Point together."

"I believe so, though they weren't in the same class. Ward graduated in 1939, Garrison in '41."

"I see," said Actor, who didn't really understand the significance of any of it – though he'd find out.

Yates regarded him tolerantly. "It's not common, that's all. You get a fairly strict seniority hierarchy at the Military Academies. Friendships don't often cross that divide. They were probably both on some sports team or other. Can't have seen much of each other since then, given their postings, but I know Lieutenant Garrison was upset about Ward. So was I, come to that. A damn good officer."

"Yes," Actor said absently, but he wasn't listening any more. There was something more important. "Wait a minute, Colonel. Go back to the beginning. Are you telling me that Lieutenant Garrison knew about his brother's death _before_ we went to Switzerland?"

"Before you went to Holland."

"The—" Actor bit down on the unflattering description of his commanding officer. "Damn it, he's done it again."

"Done what?" Yates asked, with evident curiosity.

"Conned _me._ "

Yates hooted derision. "You must be losing your touch." His humour suddenly died. "Something serious?"

Actor shook himself. "No." Self-consciously quoting Garrison, he added, "I'll deal with it in my own way. The others are in the drawing room. Shall we go through?" 

 

All four of the others were present in the oval room with its shabby blue and gold furniture and magnificent view from the curved windows. Casino was having a crafty nap on one of the twin lion-legged sofas, while Goniff was immersed in the _Daily Mirror_. Chief had set up the chessboard on the table next to the fireplace, and Garrison was beside him. Their heads, dark and fair, were bent together over the pieces, Chief's occasionally lifting to dart a glance at Garrison's face.

Actor waited for them to notice his and Yates's presence with intense but confused feelings that he was wary about analysing. Chief was trouble – he'd known that the day he first met him – just as Wheeler had been trouble. God knows, he'd given Garrison enough of it in the early days. Actor still wasn't sure that Garrison knew that Chief had killed Wheeler...

Probably not. Wouldn't snuggle up so close to Chief if he did. He was leaning on the Indian's shoulder now, pointing out some gambit to him.

Actor could understand Chief's extraordinary devotion to Garrison – they all shared it, if to a lesser degree. What he couldn't understand was what Garrison saw in the Indian.

Useful, yes, as any assassin would be. Clever – he was willing to admit that – with a dry sense of humour that could set them all laughing. He supposed that women would find the brooding, bad-boy air attractive, and he was certainly a handsome man, if you liked the type.

But that hardly explained Garrison's...

Yates cleared his throat.

"Sit down, Colonel," Garrison said, as he glanced towards him. "You want coffee, or something stronger?"

"Neither," Yates said, appropriating a wing-chair near the fireplace. "This is official business."

Three pairs of eyes flashed to Garrison, then to Actor, then traded expressions of disbelief between each other.

Casino took it on himself to act as spokesman. "A mission? Now, just a minute, Colonel—"

"Wait! Don't jump to conclusions," Yates ordered, holding up a hand. "Just let me finish, okay," but Actor knew it was Garrison's warning glance that silenced the safecracker – at least for the moment. "Twenty-four hours ago we were contacted by an intelligence cell in Germany. They are sheltering two men, _Luftwaffe_ officers, who're offering information in return for passage out. Specifically, they can give us a route of access to von Staaden."

Actor saw Garrison's head come up with the old fighting light back in his eyes, and could have hugged Yates for even this much.

"So what's this von Staaden?" Goniff asked.

"Yeah, an' why tell us about it? We're stood down," Casino pointed out.

"He's the head of Germany's counter-intelligence network," Garrison said, "and one of Hitler's most trusted aides. We've never been able to get within miles of him; not even to be sure what he looks like." He leaned forwards in his chair, face intent, suddenly once more the man they had all missed so badly over the last month. "Sir, if we can put the snatch on von Staaden—"

"There's no 'we' about this, Lieutenant. My spies tell me you can't even walk up a flight of stairs without panting."

Garrison glared at Actor, who returned the look with interest and a challenge: "If I'm lying, it should be easy enough to convince the Colonel."

"Uhuh. The Colonel's got eyes too, y'know," Yates said, with a smile. Then, to Actor, "He's just stubborn enough to try to demonstrate."

"Then we can send him back to hospital."

Yates nodded approval and waved an expansive hand. "Now there's a great idea. Go right ahead, Lieutenant."

Garrison subsided, glowering. "If you don't want us on this mission, why are you here?"

"Because one of these officers is using your name as a guarantor of his credibility."

"Me?" Garrison was astonished.

"Yes, though not you as an Intelligence agent. As a man called Craig Garrison who, if he has not been killed, will be an officer in the US Army. He also suggested your father would remember him. Someone from your past, plainly."

"Plainly," Garrison replied with faint irony. "Are you going to tell me his name?"

"Werner Jaenicke," Yates said, watching Garrison's face carefully.

So was Actor and, like Yates, he saw the amused pose shatter. " _Werner?_ But—" Garrison stopped and clamped a blank look on the amazement and joy.

"But?" Yates prompted. "Obviously, you do know him."

"Yes. He... About ten years ago, he was the best friend I had. And the 'but' is simply that the last letter I had from him said that we could not be friends again until there was victory in Europe – for someone."

"That was when?"

"Six, seven years ago. He was itching to get his hands on a _Messerschmitt_ – but he never had much time for the Nazis, just for Germany. He's intelligent. He may well have changed his mind, sir."

"Well, we're making arrangements to get him out – _no_ ," Yates added, pointedly to Garrison. "You are staying here, Lieutenant. You'll get to help debrief him," he added, as if that would be some sort of consolation. "Meanwhile, Actor, I could use you, if you're willing to go."

"You're giving him a choice?" Casino exclaimed in astonishment.

"It's not a Gorillas mission."

"Who would I be working for?" Actor asked suspiciously, and got the only answer he would have accepted.

"Me."

 _"Sir,"_ Garrison said, finally managing to interrupt.

Yates raised an eyebrow. "You have objections, Lieutenant?"

"We're a team. What's more, we're your best team. You start splitting us and—"

"Will you take me along?" Chief asked Yates.

 _"Chief!"_ Garrison exploded.

"This guy Jaenicke means a lot to you, right? An' someone's gotta watch Actor's back. Better one of us." He looked at Yates. "Well?"

Yates looked in turn at Actor, Garrison, and Chief. "Okay, you're in."

"Colonel..."

"I'm not splitting your team, son. I wouldn't dare. I'm just borrowing the best men I can think of to help me on what may be the most important mission we've ever tackled. If this Jaenicke and Gottlieb really can give us von Staaden... well, Germany's counter-intelligence will be in tatters." He rose to his feet, plainly considering the conversation closed. "We move out tonight. You'll be picked up at six o'clock. I'll brief you fully on the way to Dashunt Lacey." Then, to Garrison, "Don't look so worried. I'll do my best to bring them back undamaged."

His departure left an uneasy vacuum in the room. Garrison broke it by rising himself and saying, "Actor, we need to talk."

"Yes," said Actor, "we do. In private."

Garrison gave him a hard look, then nodded and led the way through into the exquisite green and white morning room that he had appropriated as an office.

 

With the heavy door firmly closed, though there was always the possibility of three ears pressed against it, Garrison faced Actor, arms folded, expression demanding a submission that, right now, he was not willing to give. "What the hell d'you think you're playing at? You're still under my command. You shouldn't need reminding of that."

"And you're still under Colonel Yates's command," Actor shot back. "I presume you want to keep him sweet."

They glared at each other for what seemed like a long time, then Garrison said, "And you had the nerve to call me suicidal! What happened? Don't ask me to believe you suddenly had an attack of idealism. And why don't you ever give a thought to the effect of what you say? There was no need to get Chief involved—"

"I didn't volunteer Chief, Warden!" Actor snapped back, stung.

"Chief is only going because you are."

"Warden, Chief doesn't care a tinker's damn for my safety."

"But he knows that I do."

"Do you?" That, he was pleased to see, struck Garrison like a blow in the guts.

"You know I—"

"Do I? You lied to me, Lieutenant. I hoped you trusted me enough to let me help, that you believed me, just for once—"

Garrison appeared bewildered. "You're not making sense."

Actor was no longer convinced by that innocent air. "Like Hell. You used me, conned me, locked me out with a lie."

"What lie? Actor, what the hell's wrong?"

Actor said, very carefully, "That night you got drunk. You'd been bearing your brother's death, and Ward's, for weeks. Something else pushed you over the edge—"

"Not quite over, thanks to you and Goniff," Garrison's smile was gentle. "Let it go, Actor. I was down. I let something stupid get on top of me."

"This letter you received."

The smile vanished. "Who told you about that?" He frowned, "Not Chief, surely, he—"

"So it was the letter. It's not how I found out that matters, Lieutenant, it's that I'm forced into snooping on you to find out what's wrong and I hate it. I hate myself for doing it and you for forcing me to do it and that makes me damned uncomfortable. In my line of work, a conscience is a liability."

"So is insatiable curiosity about other people's private lives."

Actor had, quite unexpectedly, lost his temper for the first time in years. "So that's how you salve your conscience, is it? By telling yourself that all I feel is idle curiosity? Well, as it happens, I haven't lied to you for over a year, Lieutenant. Though, before God, you are beginning to make me wish I had."

Garrison gave a harsh bark of laughter. "Lying comes as naturally to you as breathing."

"Which is why it's been so damn difficult – but I thought your trust and respect were worth the effort."

He'd struck through Garrison's defences again, saw him wince, heard the plea as he spoke his name. "Actor—"

He would not be conned twice. "I'm a fool. I should have seen that you're too talented a conman for anyone to be able to rely on your honest—" Actor bit back the words, horrified at his own anger, his loss of control, and at the pain on Garrison's face.

They were both shaking.

Damn it, Actor thought, yet again. How did it happen? How did I get this involved?

Garrison, his mouth taut with determination and agony, nodded once, acknowledging... something. Then, with an air of decision, he turned and crossed to the satinwood Hepplewhite-style bureau, to take a small envelope from the letter rack, making Actor curse silently for not having looked there himself though he knew the way Garrison's mind worked. But he'd assumed the letter had been destroyed. Now, however, the envelope was being extended towards him, as Garrison said, his voice harsh with control, "Well, go on, read it. Then you won't have to spy on me any more. Probably won't want to."

"I've never wanted to."

Ignoring that, Garrison shoved the letter into his hand and pushed past him.

Actor hesitated, torn between the need to offer comfort and an urgent desire to know what was in the letter. Well, he couldn't do the former to any effect until he knew what he was up against.

He was always adept at finding excuses.

The paper was good quality, several sheets of it covered in handwriting in Navy blue ink in what Actor judged to be a woman's hand.

A 'Dear John' letter? He found it difficult to imagine any woman turning Garrison down, but...

Only one way to find out.

He unfolded the letter and began to read.

 

A head appeared round the doorway: Müller's. He said, "Our agents have just reported that they are to expect an Allied team at the safe house this afternoon." He jerked his head at Jaenicke. "Is he ready?"

"He will be."

As the door closed behind Müller, Jaenicke said, "I wish I was sure of that, _Herr_ Krantz. We've have so little time – and I am sure to forget all of this – or, even worse, Craig will recognise me at once as an impostor..."

Krantz reached out and squeezed the younger man's knee. "Steady," he said. "There is nothing to worry about. If you could not recognise Craig Garrison after a decade then he is not likely to realise that you are you and not your brother. I have seen Werner's photograph, remember. You are much alike."

"Suppose they already know we have infiltrated their cell?"

"Then they will not come at all, and we will have to think of something else. Believe me, _Herr_ von Staaden will think of something else."

"Suppose they do come and Craig isn't with them?"

"That is more likely, I think. And you already know the answer. Von Staaden will leave the trap unsprung and we will continue to play the traitors."

"That's the part that frightens me."

"Just remember what we've taught you, don't make up anything else, and you'll be fine. Convincing Craig Garrison is your job – the rest is mine. It's why I'm here, and why I will be with you all the way to England, if necessary."

 

By the time Actor had finished reading the letter his hands were shaking with the urge to strangle the writer. God only knew what the effect had been on Garrison, already weakened by injury and grief.

Not true. He knew precisely what the effect had been.

Why the Devil hadn't Chief done something?

Well, who could tell what Chief thought, anyway?

Phrases from the letter floated through his mind, much as he tried to push them out. "...it's your fault that Ken died. If it hadn't been for your selfishness, he'd still be safe. You thought you were so much better than he was, didn't you? Now you probably think you've won your stupid contest, but Ken was a hero and you're just nothing... Why wasn't it you? No-one would have cared if you'd died... You broke Peggy's heart when you dumped her. She loved you, but that didn't matter, did it? Only your damned career mattered... You broke your parents' hearts too, now you've broken mine. Well, you'll never see your niece, Craig. I'll make sure of that..."

He looked towards the man at whom this bile had been directed. He was standing at the window, shoulders hunched as if he expected Actor to hit him.

Actor said, trying to keep the fury out of his voice, and failing, "Who is this bitch?"

"She isn't... Jenny, my sister-in-law. But she isn't a bitch, Actor, just a grieving woman..."

"Like Hell," Actor snapped. "This was designed to hurt. Let me guess. Before she married your brother, she'd made a play for you—" Garrison turned in response, eyes wide with surprise. "And you'd turned her down."

"It wasn't— I mean, it was never serious."

"Wasn't it? Warden, I'm not much good at the Army, but I do know about women, and she doesn't sound like one mad with grief for a man she loved, but a vindictive one getting her own back for some slight or other."

Garrison shook his head. "Most of it's true, Actor."

"Nonsense. Your brother died on the other side of the world – and your parents can't believe this rubbish. No-one who knows you could."

"Don't bet on that," Garrison said tiredly. "I haven't been in my father's good books for some time – since I entered the Point, in fact – and I haven't heard from him since I was in North Africa or from the others for months. Besides, Father must have cleared that letter for Jenny. It came through diplomatic channels, avoiding the censors."

"He can do that?" Actor asked, though he had been sure from the start that Garrison came from a privileged and educated background.

"He's with the State Department, an expert on Germany. He was stationed in Berlin before the war. That's when I met Werner."

"I wondered where you learned to speak German so well! It certainly wasn't at an American school."

Garrison's mouth twitched slightly; it was not quite a smile, but a promising move in that direction. "Your prejudices are showing."

Actor waved that away as irrelevant. "Anyway, even if your father did get it through channels, he didn't have to know what was in it."

Garrison shook his head. "He probably agrees with every word. Maybe even Mom does. She hasn't replied to my last letter – if the censors left anything of it. She's the only one who ever wrote anyway," he added, "and always through normal channels, so I suppose Father never wanted her to... he probably didn't even know we were in touch..."

"Stop this!" Actor put both hands on his shoulders. "If this true then your parents are total fools and, knowing their son, I can not believe that. They must know as well as I do that there isn't an ounce of selfishness or cruelty in you."

"Then what have I been doing to you these last few weeks? What was it you said? I used you, conned you—"

"I shouldn't've said that," Actor interrupted. "You weren't responsible for what you did that night."

"You're making excuses for me, Actor."

"If I've no other rights with you, you can't deny me that."

Garrison caught his breath. "Rights? Actor, aside from you four – and Colonel Yates I suppose – I don't think anyone would claim me as family any more. If you want to know the truth, I lied because I was scared of losing you too."

"I told you you weren't thinking straight," Actor said, relief coursing through him. "It's the same for me, and Chief, probably. Short of getting Goniff's Mum to adopt us, I think we're stuck with each other."

"You mentioned a brother and sister."

"That was a long time ago. I was someone else. We're all dead, in one way or another."

"I'm—"

"And I accepted that a long time ago too. You've turned all our lives topsy-turvy, Lieutenant, but I don't think anyone's complaining. Well, maybe Casino, but if he wasn't complaining, he wouldn't—"

"Be alive," Garrison finished for him, expression now very serious. "Actor – I'm still not sure you're right – but... well, thank you." He offered his hand.

Actor clasped it. Then, with a mutter of, "Bugger this ridiculous Anglo-Saxon stiff upper lip," he hooked his free arm around Garrison's neck and pulled him into a fierce hug.

It felt entirely different from when he had comforted a sick and drunken man. This time he was embraced so hard he couldn't breathe – not, oddly enough, that he wanted to – intensely conscious of the hardness of muscle under his hands, soft hair brushing across his cheek, the masked warmth... "You and Chief look after each other," Garrison said, into his shoulder.

"I promise. If I'd known how down you still were, I'd never have agreed to go – but I can't back out now. Chief and I'll do everything in our power to come back, and bring Jaenicke with us. We both could see what he means to you."

"Not as much as either of you. Remember that. And that's an order, Actor. You take care." Garrison stood back. He was smiling. "And the next time you go Italian on me, I'll expect the full routine including a kiss on both cheeks."

"When I get back," Actor threatened, or perhaps it was a promise. 

 

**Chapter 4**

 

The party making its way into Germany to collect Jaenicke and Gottlieb was small but select. It was an indication of how seriously Yates took the possibility of getting at von Staaden that he had chosen to lead it himself and an indication of how seriously his superiors took the possibility that he had been able to obtain a glider and a long-distance plane to tow it at this most critical of junctures. To judge by the troop and tank movements they'd had to fight their way through on their way to Dashunt Lacey, the invasion was immanent.

Apart from Yates, Actor and Chief, the other operative from the 'Crazies' was Ted Archer, who had been a circus acrobat, then a film stunt man and who had flown with RAF units before the US joined the war. He had asked after Garrison with the concern of a man who knew what it was like to lose the leader of a close-knit team. Captain Castelli, who used to command his unit, had been killed in Greece only two months before: his replacement had vanished without trace on his first mission, and Actor and Chief weren't about to ask how, though both wondered if Yates had dared to do so. Certainly the Colonel said nothing of it to Ted, who sat lazing in the pilot's seat of the Horsa glider, polishing his antique Colt revolver with its inlaid ivory grips (that he swore had belonged Wyatt Earp) in the intermittent light from the flak. No, the Colonel just went over their plans yet another time.

Yates's basic idea was to contact the intelligence cell, talk to the two defecting Germans, and then decide whether to make a try for von Staaden then and there. Actor hoped the decision went against it. It might turn a dangerous mission into a suicidal one – and he had promised Garrison they would come back.

Chief was even quieter than usual. Actor wondered what Garrison had said to him before they left.

There had been a time when working alone had been normal for him. Now, he was grateful for Chief's presence, and he was already missing the others. It was too quiet without Casino complaining and Goniff worrying. Above all, he missed Garrison...

Maybe Chief felt the same.

"There she goes," Ted said, as the tow-plane peeled away, leaving them alone and – relatively – silent in the night sky. The flak was now on the horizon, the sound reaching them long after the flashes.

Actor wondered if Garrison was missing them... what he'd do if they didn't return.

For the first time since he had come back to Europe he was really afraid.

 

Someone was shaking Garrison's good shoulder. "Warden. Warden, wake up."

"Uh? Casino?"

"Come and listen to the radio, Warden. You gotta hear this."

Garrison shoved aside his blankets, reached for a coat in lieu of a dressing gown, and followed Casino out to the room they called the lounge, where he found Goniff and the Sergeant Major crouched over the radio.

"...nhower, Allied naval forces supported by strong air forces began landing Allied armies this morning on the Northern coast of France..."

Though Garrison had known the invasion of France was coming soon, there was a sour taste in his mouth at the thought of missing the landings.

You wanted to stay in Intelligence, he told himself. 

No. I wanted to stay with my team. And half of that – the half with most of my heart in its pockets – is out there behind the Lines on a mission that may come too late to do much to help. Certainly too late to help the men out there in landing craft, or up to their necks in water, or... dying.

You don't have to be on the beachhead to die, he reminded himself, and there, at least, someone will eventually bury you. I left Richie to rot in an Italian forest. Kenneth's at the bottom of the Pacific. Jenny's right. Why them and not me? Actor, Chief, the Colonel, even Werner, could be dead right now and I wouldn't know, perhaps would never be certain...

A strong arm circled his shoulders. "Warden? Hey, babe, you feeling bad again?"

Yeah, but not sick. Just scared, Casino. More scared than I've ever been in my life.

 

Peering out of the window of the usefully ordinary apartment building that stood across the street from Becker's Grocers, the meeting place of the traitorous group his men had infiltrated, then replaced, von Staaden watched the four men disembark from the battered truck piled high with cabbages, noting the apparent amount of greying hair and lameness among them. By now, most German men under fifty had been conscripted, so the lack of uniforms would have been unusual on anyone younger, while uniforms would have been, in themselves, noticeable so far from the Front Lines.

One of those men, despite a stoop and a way of walking that suggested he should be wriggling in the gutter in subservience, was very tall. Actor? In that case... Von Staaden's hopes lifted. Maybe this would not be so difficult after all. His men were just waiting for the signal to move in.

It was in that hope that he turned to his companion. "Well?"

"Two of them, perhaps," Müller said. "One, certainly, the man you call Actor. The one who went in last, covering them, moves distinctively. He was the one who interrupted us all in the vault, I think, the one whose race puzzled me."

It was not the answer von Staaden wanted. "Garrison is not there?"

"Their leader – if his name is Garrison – is not there. That I am sure of. The others are unknown to me."

"Perhaps you are wrong, and he died from his wounds."

"No," Müller said, with certainty. "It was a moderately serious wound, but it was not fatal. There is always the possibility I hit him when I was firing at the boat but, from the reactions of his men, I think not. It may simply be that he is not fit enough for this mission."

"Or that Jaenicke is wrong and Garrison does not remember his brother with affection," von Staaden said, "or that he does, but his commanders feel that that is a reason he should not be involved. Though the need to test Jaenicke's veracity should override both." He sighed. "I did not want to test Jaenicke too hard, myself, or to risk Krantz further, but we are not favoured of fortune this time, my dear _Herr_ Müller."

"It should be me out there, not Krantz," Müller said.

"You would be recognised – and you will have your chance. At least your work in Italy will not now go to waste. Krantz is my best agent, one of the very few to have been in and out of Britain unscathed. It is Jaenicke's acting ability that worries me. Well, there is no choice. Give the signal, Herr Müller... move the yellow vase to the right of the window."

"At once." 

 

It was a pleasant relief to find that on this occasion their quarry was not skulking in a cellar but waiting for them in the comfortable apartment above the greengrocer's shop in the little Bavarian town of Lindenbronn.

"Do they speak English?" Yates asked their contact as the man led the way up the narrow and reassuringly creaky stairs.

" _Hauptmann_ Jaenicke speaks excellent English, but Major Gottlieb no more than a few words."

"We'll stick to German, then." Yates stood back to allow the OSS man into the room first, followed by Chief and Ted. As Jaenicke – a slender, athletic young man with chestnut hair, dark blue eyes and a wary expression – and Gottlieb – a big, chunky fellow with a large nose and pugnacious jaw sticking out from an otherwise bland face – rose to be introduced, Chief and Ted disappeared into the back room. A few seconds later, Chief reappeared, without Ted but with an air of satisfaction, and took up station at the window, a reassuringly familiar action.

Meanwhile, Yates, who had introduced himself by the code name "Sherman" – one used by a number of field officers, including Garrison on occasion – was already asking about the route to von Staaden. Actor's job here was to listen for falsehoods, or a meaning beyond Yates's reasonable German.

He heard none. The two Germans appeared to be grateful and desperately helpful, but the chances of getting at von Staaden on this trip did not seem to be encouraging, as the counter-intelligence chief had been recalled urgently to Berlin from his headquarters at Augsberg, some fifty miles to the North of Lindenbronn.

Actor breathed a sigh of relief. Either he and Chief would not be part of the team who went after von Staaden, or it would be once again as part of the Gorillas, with Garrison's inventive mind guiding them.

"There's some guys out there moving in on us," Chief reported from the window.

Yates had read enough of Garrison's reports not to question this. He raised his hand to silence Gottlieb and his voice to call Ted. "What about the back, Ted?"

"Clear so far."

"Won't be fer long," was Chief's opinion.

"Chief and I will hold them up," Actor suggested, starting towards the door, but unsurprised to note he was behind Chief.

"You have three minutes," Yates said then, switching back to German, _"Alle anderen hinten raus. Bewegt euch!"_

Chief was already halfway down the stairway and Actor had to jump four at a time to catch up. They paused on either side of the open door that led into the shop proper.

Beyond it, they could see three women waiting in line, while a fourth argued with the shopkeeper about the quality of the carrots and the price he was asking for them.

Damn. The presence of the civilians was another complication they could ill afford.

Chief jerked his thumb at the women, eyebrows raised to Actor in question. Actor holstered his gun and nodded towards the merchandise, making a little motion with his hand. 

Chief grinned. "They're comin'," he said.

Actor stepped forward. _"Meine Damen, bitte entschuldigen Sie, aber Sie sollten jetzt besser gehen. Die Gestapo..."_

No-one likes secret police, even when they are totally innocent – and no-one is _totally_ innocent. Instantly, the ladies decided that they would rather be elsewhere... and headed, _en masse_ , for the only exit they knew about. Some seven hundred pounds of German _hausfrau_ ploughed straight into the men who were attempting to enter. It was an unequal contest. The ladies hardly broke step as they went over and through.

While this was happening. Actor kicked over two open sacks of potatoes and one of carrots, which cascaded onto the floor as Chief hurled turnip after turnip with uncanny accuracy at those Germans who were still unfortunate enough to be on their feet. Not that they stayed that way for long. Six inches of potatoes and carrots proved a difficult surface to dodge turnips on. One man, with more invention than the rest, rose on his knees and brought his gun to bear, only to be felled when Actor snatched up the heaviest of the balance scale weights and hurled it straight at his head.

"Out," he said to Chief.

They fled through the back door, skidding to a stop in the yard beyond at the sight of Colonel Yates standing like a charioteer in a two-wheeled cart, clutching a whip on one hand and the reins of a terrified-looking horse in the other. "Well, don't just stand there," he snapped.

Actor and Chief hurled themselves aboard, landing on the two German defectors and Ted, all of whom were clinging onto the cart-sides as if they were unsecured in a roller-coaster.

"Yah! Giddap!" Yates howled, snapping the whip above the horse's head.

With the clear intention of escaping the madman, the horse shot forwards, the cart bouncing over the cobbles as the animal cornered neatly into the street, sending _SS_ troopers leaping for their lives and throwing Yates from his perch and almost out of the cart. Luckily, Chief was closest, and his reflexes enabled him to grab the Colonel's belt and haul him back aboard.

He was still, astonishingly, hanging onto both whip and reins and, with a mutter, of "Thanks, Chief," resumed his perch, cracking the whip unnecessarily to keep the horse on the move.

They were out of town before Yates regained enough control of the tiring horse to turn it through a gap in the fence into what appeared to be a farmyard. Luckily, neither farmer nor farmhands were present, and the only sign of life was a chicken, which lifted its head and stared at them in the sideways manner of its kind.

More importantly, there was an old truck parked outside the cowshed.

Half a minute later, Chief slammed the hood down on a clattering engine, and took the wheel, heading back into town with Actor at his side and the rest of the party in back.

Within a minute, he had to pull to the side road to let a staff car and two armoured vehicles through. Actor, unable to resist temptation, stuck his head out of the window and cursed them.

"Such language," Yates said, with a chuckle, as a soldier in one of the armoured cars gestured obscenely back. "If we had any soap, I'd make you wash your mouth out."

"This fuckin' rust-bucket could do with washing out too, boss," Ted complained. "My nose says the last occupants grunted."

Chief glanced back. "Won't take us far neither."

"Far enough," Yates said confidently. " _Herr_ Jaenicke, I understand you were von Staaden's personal pilot?"

"Yes, but—"

"Then point the way to the nearest airfield, and we'll see if we can steal something more to Ted's liking."

Actor chuckled, and quoted Garrison: "Why walk when we can fly?"

"At least we'll be breathing good clean aviation fluid, not this muck."

Perhaps wisely, they all decided to let Ted have the last word.

 

"I must come into the field more often," Yates stated, regarding the dead guards and the transport plane with equal satisfaction, as Jaenicke helped Chief pump fuel into the tanks and Ted inspected the cockpit instruments.

Actor wondered what Garrison would make of that. Not much, he suspected.

Ted's head appeared. "Okay, all aboard. _Herr_ Jaenicke, you wanna ride co-pilot?"

"You would trust me?" Jaenicke asked, sliding forward into the right hand seat.

"Chief'll be sitting behind you," Ted said. "He's even better with a blade than The Masked Sabre, the World's Greatest Knife Thrower. He don't bother outlining you first, neither."

"Pardon?"

"Just sit in an' tell me if I'm doing somethin' wrong," Ted said, switching on the engines. Jaenicke shrugged and fastened his seat belt.

As the plane lifted to skim low first over concrete, then trees, Chief said, "There's somethin' I always wanted t'ask you, Colonel."

"Ask away, Chief."

"Whose idea was the Gorillas? An' who decided t'put the Warden in charge."

Yates attempted a modest silence.

"Knew you was dangerous," Chief said, with a nod of acknowledgement.

Gottlieb, who was staring at Yates, asked, "Colonel?" on a note of interrogation.

Yates nodded. "Lieutenant-Colonel – _Oberstleutant_ – Yates."

"Boss of Allied Intelligence special units," Chief elaborated. "Just hope you're worth it."

There was an odd expression on Gottlieb's face, probably because he didn't understand a word. Jaenicke twisted round in his seat, looking puzzled. "Special units?"

"Now that _is_ too long a story to go into right now," Yates said. "We're headin' South, Ted. Italy, next stop. Just don't run into an Alp."

 

Ted didn't run into an Alp, though it was close-run thing at times. He met German patrols, though, and it was Gottlieb who called them on the radio, giving them identification that appeared to satisfy them. Von Staaden's name was not mentioned, but Field Marshal Kesselring's was, frequently.

Indeed, the last patrol insisted on escorting them out over Italian airspace. 

Until three Mustangs burst out of the clouds right above them.

Jaenicke yelped in fear.

"It's all right, they're ours..." 

"Not according to him!" Yates shouted, as machine-guns clattered and the Messerschmitts peeled away, trying to gain height fast. Two of the Mustangs turned to deal with them, but the other was right on the transport's tail.

Ted swerved the plane to the right, dipping a wing so low it brushed the leaves at the very top of the trees, pouring on the power in an effort to escape.

Jaenicke was white-faced, hanging onto the edges of his seat and apparently praying – at least his lips were moving silently. No doubt he would much rather have had his hands on the controls.

Actor would rather anyone but Ted had had his hands on them as sparks and thick black smoke spat from the port engine. The propeller was a Catherine Wheel of flame. All he could think was that his worst nightmare had come true. Garrison would never even know where they died, never know that—

"Yeeeehhhaaaaa!" Ted whooped. "Swimmin' hole ahead, folks. Last one in's a panty-waist."

There was water ten feet below their belly. Chief flung the door wide, shoved Gottlieb out and followed on his heels. Actor hauled Jaenicke from the co-pilot's seat and literally tossed him through the door. Yates, shouting to Ted to get clear, waved Actor onwards. He leaped, bringing his feet together just before he hit the surface.

Luckily, the lake was deep. It was also cold. Actor surfaced gasping for breath in time to see the aircraft pancake on the water, skip like a thrown pebble, then explode in a ball of flame.

Treading water, he tried to locate the others. Gottlieb was only about twenty feet away, and Actor stroked his way over to him. He couldn't see the others but, though the lake appeared to be steep-banked, there was a long spit of mud about thirty yards to his right that ran ashore in a grove of willows. Once he'd ascertained that Gottlieb was uninjured and capable of swimming by himself, he led the way towards it.

They were halfway to the spit when a figure rose out of the shallows ahead of them, helping another to his feet: Chief and Jaenicke, presumably. Before they touched land themselves, Chief had taken off his shirt and was waving it as a signal.

Yates and Ted arrived a little later. They too were unhurt except for a burn on Ted's back, which would have been much worse but for its dip in the lake.

"Of all the lousy luck. Shot down by our own side," Ted complained as he wrung out his shirt.

"Happens," Chief said, as he carefully oiled his knives. "What now?"

"We find some more transport."

"And wheels this time, not wings," said Actor. "Com'on, Chief, let's go and take a look around."

 

The checkpoint was exactly where Actor had expected to find it, on open ground that gave an excellent view down the road in both directions, with a machine gun emplacement on the ridge of rock above, both surrounded by earth from which all the cover had been burnt.

"What now?" Chief asked, and it felt strange to be the recipient of the question usually directed at Garrison.

"If we held that checkpoint, we could take our pick for transport, and perhaps get papers that'll take us all the way through to the Front Line."

Chief nodded. "So what's your plan?"

Actor wished he had one. No doubt Garrison would have thought up something outrageously clever, but he wasn't Garrison. 

When in doubt, follow your instincts. And make the best use of what is to hand. He had his ability to con, and Chief's to kill. Add something more: the Germans had almost certainly seen the dogfight and their aircraft go down. And he and Chief were both wearing German uniform, had been since they entered the base to steal the plane.

Corny – but reasonably sure of success.

"Okay, Chief," he said. "This is what we're going to do."

 

When they had seen the plane disappear towards the lake, the _Unteroffizier_ and two Privates at the checkpoint had telephoned the observation to headquarters, finding, with relief, that they were not expected to mount a rescue operation in woods that often seemed infested by partisans and spies. The _Unteroffizier_ , though, had climbed up to the machine gunners, and asked them to look out for the plane's crew.

He was not surprised, therefore, when the machine guns failed to open up as two men in _Wehrmacht_ uniform staggered out of the trees onto the road some distance from the checkpoint. Not that either of them appeared to need the services of the machine guns to stop them reaching the checkpoint. One of them had tipped straight to the ground, pulling his companion with him. This man, an _Oberleutnant_ , tried to drag him back to his feet, and failed. For a moment he rested on his knees beside his fallen comrade then, raising his head, plainly saw the checkpoint for first time.

Slowly and painfully, he regained his feet and stumbled towards them, palms outwards to show he was unarmed. His uniform was soaked with water and ash, and patched with blood.

The guards had to catch him or he would have impaled himself on the barbed wire. 

All the same, they searched him, with a muttered apology from the _Unteroffizier_ , before taking him inside their shelter, sitting him down, and draping a blanket over his hunched shoulders. He was totally unarmed.

"Help..." he panted, waving a hand back the way he had come. " My... navigator... Crashed into lake... Badly hurt. Please help him."

The _Unteroffizier_ called up to the machine gunners to cover him, then ran swiftly to the prone body. Looking up, he signalled one of the Privates to join him, and the pair of them dragged the casualty back to the shelter of the checkpoint, where they laid him on the floor.

While they were occupied with him, his tall companion came suddenly to life, knocking the second Private unconscious with a blow to the throat. The German made almost no noise at all as he began to crumple, allowing his assailant to catch him and ease him silently down.

That action completed, the _Oberleutnant_ hissed, _"Partisanen!"_

Both Germans turned, and both reached for their guns – but it was too late.

Chief was not quite as good with his left hand as his right, but he could hardly miss with either knife at such close range. Even as the blades left his hands he was reaching forward to smother any attempted shout from the _Unteroffizier_ before it could be uttered, as Actor jumped to do the same office for the Private.

"That uniform'll fit you," Actor said, nodding at the Private's body. "If you wear a helmet and keep your head down, they won't realise anything's wrong until you reach the machine gun. Just be careful you don't let them see the slit in the back of the tunic."

"Ain't gonna turn my back on anyone, Dad." Chief's black eyes were alight with something that always sent a shiver down Actor's spine as he cleaned his knives on the dressing the _Unteroffizier_ had been about to apply to his supposed wound.

 

Ten minutes later, Actor was able to send Chief off to fetch the others.

 

They were lucky. The seventh vehicle they stopped was a light armoured car escorting a staff car carrying two members of Kesselring's support staff.

When both vehicles left they had acquired a few bullet holes and new crews; Actor and Gottlieb in the staff car, driven by Chief, and Yates, Ted and Jaenicke – who said he knew how to drive it – in the armoured car ahead of them.

 

They had begun to think about when they should abandon their stolen vehicles and clothing for their attempt to cross the lines into Allied Occupied Territory – now less than thirty miles away – when a sudden burst of small arms fire from the wood through which they were travelling dissuaded them.

The armoured car braked sharply, and so, perforce, did Chief. Actor shoved Gottlieb to the floor, snapped, "Don't fire, they'll be partisans," at Chief, who was also hunkered down, and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. The armoured car was silent. No doubt Yates, whose Italian was not fluent, expected Actor to talk them out of the trap – and certainly the partisans could be most helpful, if they could be persuaded to leave them alive for long enough to explain.

"Don't shoot!" Actor called out to them, in Italian, waving the no longer pristine white handkerchief over the door. "We're Americans." Well, some of them were.

The firing continued. It occurred to Actor that this was twice on this mission that their own side had come far closer than the Germans had to killing them. He didn't want there to be a third time. It might be 'lucky' in the worst way.

Eventually, it occurred to the partisans that the 'Germans' were not firing back, and the shooting ceased. They were ordered to throw out their weapons, then come out with their hands up.

Actor complied at once, the others following as soon as he translated the order. It was with some reluctance that Chief was also persuaded to discard his switchblades, but Actor was adamant: the knives would be far too good an excuse for the partisans to kill them.

Once face to face with the half dozen or so wild-looking men, Actor put on his widest and most innocent smile, spread his hands, and told them how glad he was to see them and how much he needed their help.

Yates backed him up in a mixture of English and bad Italian mixed with the odd word of Spanish, while Ted and Chief watched with disapproval as their special weapons were passed from hand to hand. Jaenicke and Gottlieb, wisely, kept their mouths firmly shut.

"We need to get behind the Allied Lines," Actor explained. "If you can help us—"

A bayonet came close to slicing off his ear. "Why should we believe you? You wear German uniform—"

"It's a good disguise," Actor pointed out. "After all, you were fooled, weren't you?"

"We were not warned you were coming, and you have no passwords."

"We were not meant to be here." Suddenly remembering the Gorillas' last jaunt behind the Italian lines, Actor added that, "If you can contact Emilio Frazini he will vouch for me. Tell him it is 'Actor'. He will understand."

There was some more to-ing and fro-ing over this, but eventually they were blindfolded and herded up into the mountains.

 

Actor expected to have to stay in the partisans' camp for several days, but he only had time for ten hours solid sleep before he was woken by shouts of welcome. Scrambling hurriedly to his feet, application of the heels of his hands to his eyes was rewarded by the sight of the familiar figure of Frazini, unchanged since they had rescued him from Hauser's villa save that the bruises had faded and the cuts were reduced to scars. He was also surrounded by a fearsome-looking bodyguard, which he shoved aside to greet Actor effusively, causing Chief, who had been on his feet before Actor, to step back hurriedly.

"It is good to see you again, my friend," Frazini said to Actor, in Italian, despite the fact that he spoke English almost as well as Yates and far more grammatically than Chief or Ted. "Is there a problem?" His eyes moved over the sleep-dishevelled company. "Garrison is not with you? Or Casino or Goniff?"

Hearing the anxious note in Frazini's voice, it occurred to Actor that Garrison had a lot more friends who cared about him than he realised. "They're safe in England," he said.

Frazini let out a little breath of relief. "For a moment I feared... You must take my best wishes to them, and remind the Lieutenant that he has promised you all will come back to see me when the war is finally over."

"He won't forget," said Actor. "Meanwhile, allow me to introduce you to Colonel Yates..."

 

Watching them, Krantz was still wondering what von Staaden would say when he found out they had had the commander of the Allied Intelligence Special Units – the man who had, no doubt, arranged the recruitment of Actor and Chief, and put Garrison in command of them – in their hands and had deliberately let him get away. He wished he could speak Italian, or at least that Actor and Frazini wouldn't talk so fast. He thought he'd caught the name 'Garrison' though, and this was confirmation that Actor had been part of the team that had removed Frazini from Hauser's clutches.

Everything was going wrong. Von Staaden could no longer even be sure they were alive, though Krantz knew him well enough to be certain that he would not give up hope. Or the plan.

 

Frazini listened to Yates's and Actor's explanations, then said, "I'll send one of our couriers through the lines to tell SOE to send a plane for you. One of my people will go with you to the landing site to ensure safe passage through the partisan groups – or at least make sure you stay away from the areas we don't control – and see you safe aboard. We'll find you some more suitable clothes, then you'd better get your gear together."

"Your friends have Chief's knives – and a revolver that one of our men is rather fond of."

"I'll see you get it all back." Frazini turned to the partisans and began issuing orders. Once again there was much arm waving and even more shouting, but eventually Actor found himself in possession of an old pair of Italian Army pants and a threadbare peasant's coat, and the others were soon similarly clad. A man turned up with Chief's knives, and another with Ted's Colt. As soon as these were – reluctantly – handed over both men strapped them into place with identical expressions of comfort.

 

Their courier turned out to be a handsome woman – no-one would have dared to call her 'pretty', festooned as she was with ammunition belts, three guns and a knife that resembled a small sword. Actor's first mistake was to ask her name while wearing his best lady-killer smile, only to be told it was none of his damn business. Chief fared no better when he protested, a little too audibly, that this "weren't no job fer a lady."

The lady made it clear she understood English – even Chief's bastard version of it – well enough to let it be known she had no need of protection. That, Actor surmised, would make Chief even more protective; he'd seen it happen before, even with Garrison, who normally stood in as little need of protection as anyone he had ever met.

Well, physical protection.

Normally, Chief's instincts were directed at females, usually ones uninterested in being protected by Chief. This one plainly considered all of them a nuisance. But she knew her job, leading them by animal trackways and forest paths far away from the Germans, their Italian allies, and those partisans she did not feel could be trusted.

They were passing through a part of Italy that Actor knew well, and the wartime changes both distracted and disturbed him. So did the woman, who kept giving him covert glances when she didn't think he was looking.

He shrugged, feeling no regret at not being able to follow up her interest, particularly because Chief was watching her with a hungry expression and he didn't want to get into rivalry with Chief... or rather, get into any more than he was already over his unconfirmed second in command status, and Garrison's friendship.

 

At ten o'clock, a B25 landed in the clearing, drawing a grunt of approval from Ted at the pilot's skill. He turned out to be a cheerful Italian in a British uniform, who greeted their guide effusively, then bundled them into the back of his aircraft.

The last thing Actor saw of the woman was her turning the line of mules into the trees a few inches below their wheels.

Just another transient through his life, like everyone else he knew, even Garrison. It was many years since he had wanted it any other way, but now it seemed something to regret, that he should not even know the name of the woman who had risked her life for them without any reason other than patriotism and personal honour.

It was a long time since he'd felt either.

 

Once they were behind the American lines in the safety of a supply camp, Yates obtained sleeping quarters for his men and left to consult with the authorities about the best way home. He'd also promised Actor that he would make sure that Garrison knew they were safe.

With Ted watching the two Germans, Chief and Actor retired to the next tent to get some sleep.

It was an hour or so later that Actor raised his head to see Chief peering through the tent flap. "All quiet?"

"Yeah. For the moment." Chief made his way back to his cot. As he sat down on it, he added, "I don't trust that guy."

Actor folded his arms behind his head. "Gottlieb?" he asked the canvas above him. "Ted? Colonel Yates?"

"Y'know who I mean." Darkly.

Which was true? He dropped the pretence of not understanding. "I don't like him much either, but he's Garrison's friend—"

"Yeah, but the Warden ain't seen him for a dozen years o'more. There's guys I ran with back around then I'd just as soon as not meet again."

Chief was only a year or so younger than Garrison, of course, but there was no other point of contact between their childhoods – and his own was a little further away in time but no doubt much closer to Garrison's in experience. "I don't think either Jaenicke or the Warden ran with street gangs," he said, "but I know exactly what you mean. There are 'friends' from more recent times that I'd rather not meet myself. There's—"

There's also the fact that neither of us likes the idea that someone else might be closer to Garrison than we are.

"–also the fact he's a Kraut," Actor finished, with hardly a pause, "and a traitor to boot."

Chief gave him a stare that said he'd caught the hesitation. "Not sure about Gottlieb either, for those reasons. An' we got away far too easy."

"Easy! After being shot down by our own side? And you didn't have to talk your way through all those German roadblocks, not to mention persuade the partisans to let us live."

"Lyin's what you're good at, so I guess I'll leave it t'you." Chief flashed a grin at Actor, then frowned. "Sides, that's not what I meant. First thing I'a'd done, if I'd been trackin' us into that store, was cover the back. An' they didn't."

"No," Actor said thoughtfully. "They didn't, did they?"

It was a thought that precluded easy sleep for the rest of the night.

 

**Chapter 5**

 

During the journey back to England, Krantz tried to crush his rising impatience – and failed. He wanted to meet Garrison, wanted to know why he had not been on this mission, wanted to know where the rest of the team he and von Staaden had trailed for a year were hiding, wanted to report back to Germany, and wanted to get Jaenicke somewhere where he wasn't under such pressure...

No-one told him anything. No-one said anything useful to each other, either, in German or English, despite the fact he had been at pains to conceal that he spoke the latter as well as Jaenicke. He was on edge at the idea of being unable to give the younger man the support he deserved. It was small comfort that, even without it, Jaenicke had coped remarkably well with co-piloting a plane he couldn't fly.

At least none of them had to fly this one, though Ted would no doubt have done so if he had been allowed, and this time they were untroubled by American fighters, at least.

They were met at the airbase – Dashunt Lacey, presumably, as that was favoured by Allied Intelligence – by a large closed car and driven to what appeared to be a big country house just outside London, where Yates was greeted with salutes and the rest of the party with suspicion. Krantz noticed that neither Chief nor Ted appeared at ease, and that Actor – who he was beginning to suspect was never at a loss – made a point of fading into the background, something he did with amazing ease for someone so tall and wide-shouldered.

When Yates ushered them into his office, the man who rose to meet them was not the one Krantz had hoped to see, though Jaenicke greeted him with a delighted-sounding, "Mr Garrison, it is a great pleasure to meet you again."

"I'm afraid you have the advantage of me." The dark-haired, middle-aged man who was plainly the subject of Heinzel's revisionist version of Müller's portrait frowned for a moment. "Good Lord. You're one of the Jaenicke boys. Werner or Manfred?"

"Werner, sir."

Shrewd brown eyes moved to Yates. "Colonel? I'm James Garrison. I take it this is why you asked me to be here?"

Yates was smiling, but Chief and Actor were exchanging glances that meant who knew what?

"The main reason," the Colonel said. " _Hauptmann_ Jaenicke was sure you would recognise him, and as you were in England... Well, we need to be as sure as we can be of his probity."

Krantz cursed silently. It was becoming clear that either Müller's drawing or their assumptions were wrong. If only they had captured Yates while they had the chance. He and Jaenicke were taking appalling risks for nothing—

There was a rap on the door. Yates called, "Come!" and a tall, fair young man in the uniform of a US Army 1st Lieutenant entered and saluted the Colonel with crisp precision and a, "You wanted to—" He paused for an instant as he took in the whole group, including Jaenicke and James Garrison and then continued, "see me, sir," hardly missing a beat.

"I think we all do," Yates said, with a smile. 

And he could not know how right he was, as far as Krantz was concerned. This was without doubt the subject of Müller's portrait and, from his resemblance to James Garrison, equally certainly close kin.

The Lieutenant's eyes flickered over the expectant faces, raising smiles from Actor and Chief and a nod of greeting from Ted, before coming to rest questioningly on James Garrison's. The returned stare was uncompromising.

Then Jaenicke, who was probably too nervous to wait for the tensions to resolve themselves, scrambled to his feet. "Craig...?" Krantz was pleased to note that he had, at least, got the right amount of question into his voice. The boy might turn into a decent agent, if he lived that long.

If the Reich lasts that long.

Shoving that treacherous thought aside, Krantz concentrated on the Lieutenant's reaction.

His expression was measuring as he looked towards Jaenicke, perhaps even a little suspicious, but then it melted into a delighted smile. "Werner," he said, and offered both hands.

Jaenicke clasped them, then allowed himself to be drawn into a welcoming embrace. 

_"Gott sei Dank,"_ the Lieutenant said, _"Ich hatte nicht gewagt zu hoffen gewagt, daß du es wirklich bist."_

"It's so good to know you're alive," Jaenicke said, in the same language, as he was released only to be examined at arm's length. "When they brought your father here, I thought you must be dead, or on some front where you could not be spared..."

"I'm surprised myself," James Garrison said dryly, in English, and with a faint air of disapproval. "Plainly two theatres and half a dozen fronts can get along without you, Craig."

"As Washington can apparently get along without you," the Lieutenant shot back. Then, biting his lips in obvious anger at his own response, "I apologise." He smiled. "It's good to see you, Father."

"Don't pretend you mean that any more than the apology," James Garrison snapped, making his son wince and Yates step quickly into the breach.

"Mr Garrison, your son is a highly valued member of my staff, doing a difficult and often dangerous job—"

"I have no doubt of that. What I fail to see is why, if you had him to hand, you needed me to identify Werner Jaenicke here."

"I like to cover all the angles," Yates said. 

"Is that really the case?" James Garrison sounded doubtful. "If so, Colonel, you have your identification, and I have work to do. Important work. If you'll excuse me..." 

As he moved for the door, the Lieutenant blocked his path. Now they were standing within a foot of each other, the resemblance was striking, despite the difference in colouring and the younger man's handspan of extra height. "Sir..." 

"Yes?"

"Give Mom my love."

"What good will that do when you go the same way as Kenneth?" James Garrison asked harshly. "You never considered her feelings in the past – why start now?" He nodded curtly to Yates, said, _"Alles Gute, Werner,"_ to Jaenicke and left.

The room was silent. Yates looked horrified – a man, Krantz guessed, who had arranged a treat for a favourite and seen it become a nightmare. Jaenicke looked equally stricken, which puzzled Krantz until he asked, "Craig... is Kenny...?"

Garrison didn't hear him. He was staring at the closed door with an expression so controlled that it reminded Krantz of von Staaden at his worst.

The only man who had the nerve to move was Actor, who was between Garrison and the door without seeming to pass through the space between. "Okay," he said. "I admit it. He _is_ that stupid. Are you _sure_ you're related?"

The corner of Garrison's mouth twitched. "I'm afraid so."

Actor shook his head mournfully. "Pity you can't chose your relatives. Well, I'm alive, I'm back, I'm feeling extremely Italian and I did promise the full routine." With that, to Chief's amusement and Yates's obvious surprise, he took Garrison's face in his hands, kissed him on each cheek, then hugged him.

Laughing, the Lieutenant pushed him away. "Okay, I'm convinced. Chief, you're grinning."

"Yup," Chief said.

Garrison shook his head and rapped Chief gently on the chest with his fist. "At least you won't go Italian on me."

"Nope, Indian. Bring back heap scalps," Chief said, straightfaced. "Called countin' coup, Warden. Look good on the bedroom wall, maybe."

"Don't push your luck. It's bad enough you brought the Colonel back. Didn't I tell you to lose him?"

"Nope. An' you sure didn't warn me he's worsen _you_ are, neither."

Krantz wasn't sure that he understood the subtleties of dialect, but what was clear was the affection between Garrison and what were plainly _his_ men.

_– willing to give his life for his country, though his men were not willing to take it –_

Once again Müller had been proved right. Such loyalties were a great strength but, if correctly exploited, also a great vulnerability. Once von Staaden had these men in his hands, they would be easy to break.

Yates was saying, "Thank you for the compliment, Chief. Lieutenant, I'm putting you in charge of Major Gottlieb and _Hauptmann_ Jaenicke. You're responsible for their safety and security. We'll commence debriefing – at the Dower House – just as soon as we've all gotten some sleep."

"Yes, sir," Garrison said crisply. "Am I to take that to mean I'm back on active duty?"

"You're to take it that your duties are what I say they are." Yates's expression softened. "Relax, Lieutenant. You'll be back in action soon enough. The war isn't going to end for a while yet, invasion or not."

 

"Craig, what about Kenny?" Jaenicke asked as they descended the steps towards the waiting cars. 

"A Japanese torpedo," Garrison said shortly. "What about Manfred, and your parents?"

"Manfred was killed at Stalingrad," Jaenicke said, trotting out the prepared story, to Krantz's profound relief. "Father'd already died of a heart attack in 1940. Mother's living with Aunt Irma – you remember Aunt Irma?"

"How could I forget?" Garrison asked, opening the limousine door to let the Germans into the back. "I remember that Trakehner stallion of hers even better."

"Donnnerschlag," Jaenicke said, as he took his seat beside Krantz.

"I still think you'd've gotten over that hedge if you'd had a saddle."

"A bridle might have helped too," Jaenicke said as, with everyone safely installed, Garrison took the final place facing his old friend, their knees almost touching, and signalled to the driver to move off. "It was all very well for you. You didn't end up in hospital with concussion and a broken leg."

"I got you the ambulance, didn't I? And I had to cope with my father, and your father, and Aunt Irma and her riding crop. I think you were better off in hospital."

"You may have a point."

Krantz listened to the by-play with puzzlement on his face – as befitted someone who supposedly didn't speak English – but with internal satisfaction. He had no doubt that Garrison was testing Jaenicke, and that that young man was proving equal to the task.

Only a family member could have done it, and so long as Garrison never suspected that 'Werner' was in fact Manfred, their deception was secure.

And why should he? Clever as he was, he couldn't be expected to out-think von Staaden. Krantz had never met anyone who could.

 

Once the two Germans were installed in their quarters under discrete guard, Garrison began to relax for the first time since Actor and Chief had accompanied Yates overseas.

Tomorrow would be difficult enough, though at least it had to be better than today.

He'd not anticipated that the last few hours would be easy, even before the unexpected confrontation with his father, though the kindness of Yates's intention had been almost as heart-warming as Actor's 'Italian' greeting.

Now he had all his team gathered about him again, with Chief watching him with silent intensity from his perch on the edge of the sideboard while Actor sat besides him on a sofa, legs extended over the footstool, hands always on the move as he illustrated a detail of his increasingly colourful report, conveyed his pipe to his mouth or, occasionally, reached out to touch Garrison's shoulder, as if to reassure himself that he was still beside him.

Garrison knew exactly how he felt. As he listened to Actor's story he found himself more and more relieved that he had neither known the details of the Colonel's plan, nor what was actually happening.

Until a few months ago, it had not occurred to him that he could lose Actor. The conman was so self-confident and competent that he had seemed invulnerable. It was an illusion he had never had about any of the others.

And it _was_ an illusion, one he'd never recover... one he doubted Actor had ever had about him.

"Good work," he said, when Actor finished, because his men would expect some praise for a job well done.

"We shoulda gone along," Casino said to Goniff. "I'd've given a lot to see the Colonel do his _Ben Hur_ act."

"You can go risk your neck for a couple of krauts if you want, mate, but I'd just as soon not. Begging your pardon, Warden. I know one of them's supposed to be a friend of yours."

"Don't let that worry you, Goniff. During the debriefing period we don't forget they're enemy officers. I'm relying on all of you to make sure they don't escape or make any contacts we don't know about."

"You bet," Casino said. "But they're being debriefed here because Jaenicke is your buddy, right?"

Garrison nodded. "Partly, I think. And also because Actor and I speak good German, and probably because the Colonel wants to keep us occupied until our next mission, which may have a connection with Gottlieb and Jaenicke."

Actor's head turned sharply to look at him, and there was a frown on his face. Garrison stared him out. "You have a problem with that, Actor? No? Then maybe we should all hit the sack. You and I, at least, have a hard day ahead tomorrow."

Goniff and Casino made for the door at once, but Chief, though he slipped down off the sideboard, hesitated where he stood, regarding Garrison uneasily.

"It's all right, Chief," Actor said lazily. "It's not up to him. If he's not ready to go, Yates won't let him."

"The Colonel will do exactly what is necessary," Garrison said coldly. "As I will – and as you will, if I order it."

There was a sudden silence. Casino and Goniff, who had turned back at Actor's remark, glanced at each other, then at Actor – who looked as if he'd been slapped – and Chief, who was totally expressionless.

"Guess the vacation's over," Casino observed to Goniff. "Knew it was too good to last. But not a Swiss bank vault this time, huh, Warden? You gotta think of our nerves."

"He'll find something worse, you see if 'e don't," Goniff prophesied. "Com'on, let's get some sleep while we can. For all we know, it's off to Berlin in the morning."

As the others started to follow, Garrison signalled to Actor to sit down again, occasioning more significant looks and a, "Good luck, mate," from Goniff as the door closed behind them.

Garrison wasn't sure which of them needed it. Having delivered the required rebuke, he should have left Actor – who was far from stupid – to work out why it had been necessary. 

Only he couldn't do it.

It hurt to see the wariness on Actor's face as he settled on the other sofa, facing Garrison, but with a safe distance between them.

Damn. That hurt too.

"I didn't like doing that," he said. "I hope you won't put me in the position where I have to do it again.

"My own fault," Actor admitted stiffly. "I knew the risk."

"If you knew the fucking risk why did you say it?" Garrison snapped. "Actor, this job is difficult enough at the best of times, without you undermining me."

"What? I would never do such a—" Actor stopped short, a horrified look on his face. "Lieutenant, I did not mean... I was trying to reassure Chief, nothing more."

"I'll reassure Chief in my own way. I know you 'don't have any illusions' about me but he still does, and to a lesser degree so do Casino and Goniff. That's what keeps them alive: their confidence in my decisions. They start to hesitate, to wonder if I'm fit, or sane, or whatever, and they'll be dead. And, almost certainly, so will we."

Actor's lips moved in what was probably a curse, and probably aimed at himself. "I'm sorry," he said again. "That was not... how I saw it. And I was reassuring myself as much as Chief."

"I know. You've been worried about me, with reason, and God knows I don't know how I'd've gotten through the last couple of months without your help. I don't want to make too much of this, Actor. Saying something like that to me in private's fine, but in front of the others I was forced to slap you down."

"Command image," Actor said, as if the words tasted foul.

"Yes. Both mine and yours. Command involves supporting those above you as well as leading those below. You've been doing remarkably well at being my second-in-command. Don't blow it now."

Actor was silent for a while, looking down at his hands, his expression – what Garrison could see of it – unreadable. Then he looked up, smiled, and shifted across to sit at his side. "Are you really all right?" he asked, running a gentle hand over the other man's injured shoulder.

It hurt but, braced for the touch, Garrison didn't think it showed. "Yes. Thanks to you."

The smile widened. "It's good to have Lieutenant Garrison back. I began to wonder if I'd ever see him again."

"It's good to have Actor back. I wasn't sure he was going to make it."

"I always make it," Actor said. "Remember that: making it back without you would be much worse than not making it back... particularly if I had to explain it to Chief."

"Personally, I wouldn't try," Garrison said, with a grin to try to cover how moved he was. Actor meant it, despite the attempt at humour. He could only match it. "Much better to head for South America."

"What makes you think I'm not wanted there?"

"Right now you're wanted here." Then, as Actor gave him an interrogative look, "We have to interview Jaenicke and Gottlieb tomorrow." He grinned at the flash of disappointment on the other man's face, then added, seriously, "And needed here, Actor. Both by the team and by me. You matter. Don't ever think otherwise."

"So do you," Actor said. "Whatever anyone else might say. However much they mean to you."

"Oh, that." Garrison made an attempt to shrug away the reference to his father. "That's not important. But von Staaden is, and I'm counting on you to help me find a way through to him. Which means we'd better be on our toes tomorrow. Get some sleep, Actor." He rose to his feet, stretched, and headed for the door, the old bounce back in his step. Suddenly, though, he paused, and looked back. "And thank you," he said, with a quick smile that lifted Actor's spirits out of all proportion to its duration, leaving the conman staring at the closing door with a huge smile of his own on his lips, and unexpected joy in his heart.

 

It didn't last. Actor lay awake for a long time that night, trying to assess how close Garrison was to normality, and how much of tonight had been a con. It was something that had dogged their relationship all along; that they were both so good at lying. What made it worse, as far as Actor was concerned, was that more than ninety-nine percent of the time, Garrison was utterly open and honest with him, at least about his feelings. Deception – if you found out about it at all – always came as a shock.

The more he thought, the more he knew that he ought to do something to reconnect Garrison with his family. He had been plainly upset by the encounter with his father. His sister-in-law was a bitch, and Actor was glad she wasn't contactable. That left his mother and, if his father was in England, perhaps she was too.

Tomorrow, he thought to himself, settling down to sleep. Should be easy enough to find her. Got to talk to her first, though. Can't make the same mistake as Yates.

And if she is a bitch too?

It was an oddly inviting prospect. Garrison would be as free from family ties as he was. Except for the Army. And Jaenicke. And Chief.

Actor turned over and banged his pillow into shape. 

What the fuck was he thinking of? Get the war over with, get his parole, and Garrison would be out of his life forever.

They'd both be happier that way.

Tomorrow, he'd start the process.

 

"It has been obvious for some time that the Reich is finished," Gottlieb said. "Stalingrad drained too much of our strength, and the partisan movements in some of the Occupied countries are draining more. We are stretched too thin. I do not want to die anymore than you do. Though I knew ways of contacting OSS or SOE, they weren't going to trust me and once I ran, I threw away the only thing I had to bargain with – access to von Staaden. Then two things happened: _Hauptmann_ Jaenicke was appointed as one of von Staaden's private pilots and my friend Franz Müller, detached as von Staaden's deputy in Italy, hinted to me that he was also looking for a way out."

"He must have known you very well," Garrison observed.

"We have been friends for many years."

"Well, go on."

"I discovered in _Hauptmann_ Jaenicke a disillusion similar to my own. Cautiously, I broached the subject, thinking that if all else failed, we might attempt to flee by air, and found I was in luck. Not only did Werner speak English well but he had, he said, friends in the American forces who might trust him, even a diplomat who might vouch for him.

"So we took the chance and arranged to contact Allied Intelligence through an OSS cell that had been subverted by von Staaden. They thought we were double agents, and we knew they were. An interesting paradox." Gottlieb sounded flippant, but he was watching Yates closely.

The Colonel said nothing, but Actor and Garrison both knew he would be on the line to OSS the minute the interview was completed. Perhaps Gottlieb was lying, perhaps not but it would certainly need to be put to the test. And if the OSS cell had, indeed, been infiltrated, it was one more telling point in the German's favour.

"You think the double agents betrayed you?" Garrison asked.

Certainly, the arrival of the soldiers had suggested that to Actor.

"Naturally, for no-one else except yourselves knew where we were."

"Von Staaden almost certainly does, and that means there's no chance of getting to him at his HQ," Yates said, glaring at Gottlieb.

Who shrugged. "His HQ is always mobile. By now it will have been moved, along with his security files."

"What about Müller?" Garrison asked.

"Franz is waiting for you to contact him via the local partisans. At your signal, he will send a request – a plea – for von Staaden's assistance in Italy. The situation there is such – and Kesselring so insistent – that von Staaden will not be able to refuse it. Indeed, it was on the _Generalfeldmarschall's_ insistence that Franz was appointed."

Yates leaned forward, chin on his hands, eyes intent. "So you can give us von Staaden after all."

"No. I can give you an... opportunity. It will not be easy. Franz's HQ will have tight security, and von Staaden will be surrounded by guards."

Garrison and Yates looked at each other, speculation in their eyes. Actor felt his stomach begin to sink.

Despite what he'd said the night before, Garrison wasn't ready for this.

"What about this Müller?" Yates demanded. "Couldn't he kill von Staaden? Do our job for us?"

"I told you, von Staaden is well guarded. Even at secret briefings he is accompanied by at least one of his top agents, usually a man called Krantz. Besides, Franz does not intend to commit suicide. His freedom is part of the price for von Staaden. I must insist on your word on that."

 

"What do you think?" Yates asked Garrison, when they withdrew for coffee and cigarettes.

"Maybe rats deserting a sinking ship. Maybe something else entirely."

Trap? Actor had already considered that, but there had not been a trap in Germany. If there had been, the soldiers could have gunned them down as they entered the shop. Gottlieb and Jaenicke could have killed them half a dozen times, instead of saving their lives.

No, the trap didn't make sense.

Yates obviously thought so too. "I don't see what they'd get out of it. If I send a team into Italy and Gottlieb isn't on the level, all von Staaden can do is take out – or maybe capture and interrogate – whoever I send, and Gottlieb himself loses his liberty and maybe his life."

"Gottlieb and Jaenicke could have taken you out at Lindenbronn," Garrison said. "Or at any time on the trip home. If this is a trap, I don't see the payoff. We lose a few agents, they lose Gottlieb and Jaenicke. Pawn sacrifices. Not worth von Staaden's time."

Yates nodded, and stubbed out his cigarette. "Okay, let's try talking to your friend Jaenicke, see if he confirms Gottlieb's story."

 

Watching the interrogation-masquerading-as-a-friendly-chat with an unease that he could not dispel, Actor listened with a small part of his mind and used the rest to try to isolate the reason. 

There was something false about Garrison's attitude to Jaenicke, he decided.

But what?

Well, maybe they had never been friends at all.

No, that didn't make sense. Why should either of them lie about it? Nor did it square with Garrison's attitude which seemed, if anything, overly friendly towards the German; leaning on Jaenicke's shoulder too often, using his first name in every other sentence, and looking at him so intensely that it recalled the way Chief looked at _him_. So maybe Chief would understand Jaenicke's relationship with Garrison better.

 _"I don't trust that guy,"_ he remembered Chief saying.

What had he sensed about Jaenicke? 

Well, there had been his own analysis at the time: _There's also the fact that neither of us likes the idea that someone else might be closer to Garrison than we are._

Just how close was Jaenicke to Garrison? And how much of a threat? Well, if Chief saw Jaenicke that way then he was unlikely to be one for very long.

But a threat to what? Just how close was _Chief_ to Garrison? How close had Jaenicke been?

_...that women would find the brooding, bad-boy air attractive, and he was certainly a handsome man, if you liked the type._

_But that hardly explained Garrison's..._

Did it?

Actor caught his breath at the ridiculousness of his own idea. It was difficult to imagine anyone less of a limp-wristed faggot than Garrison.

Except that he knew perfectly well that the stereotype was only partially true. There were people like that, but then there had been that bouncer in Madrid, some ten years ago, nearly seven foot of solid muscle who'd knock your head off your shoulders as soon as look at you and, it was rumoured, had been buggered by every queer that way inclined in the city, as well as supplying the more exotic needs of the nightclub's owner and one of the leading toreadors. Not to mention the opera singer – a _basso profundo_ who'd been that year's discovery as Wotan – who'd propositioned Actor while the conman had been trying to seduce his wife...

Yes, all right, _but not Garrison_. He could not believe it, _refused_ to believe it...

He was still working on refusing to believe it when Yates closed down the interview and sent Jaenicke back to join Gottlieb and the others for dinner.

 

Actor ate with the two US officers – or at least tried to eat – and also tried to show some interest in the conversation.

"Well, they back each other up," Yates said, "but then I'd expect nothing else."

"But they didn't use identical wording at any time," Garrison pointed out. "If they're agents repeating a cover story, they're damn good."

"Gottlieb was one of von Staaden's officers."

"All right, so he is damn good."

"At analysis, according to him," said Actor, "but he could be lying. If he is a field agent..."

"No evidence, either way."

"What about Werner Jaenicke?"

Garrison shrugged. "I'm the wrong person to ask. Try in a week or so, when we've got to know each other again."

"Actor?"

_Got to know each other again?_

"Actor?"

"Uh, sorry. I think there's something we don't know, Colonel, something we're not seeing. I've no proof... but there's something false."

"We've a little time," Yates said. "Keep probing, the pair of you. Outside the official debriefings, they may let their guard down far enough for you to slip inside it. Let me know what you find out."

 

Krantz laid the Three of Spades on top of the Two of Spades, and replaced it on the Four of Hearts with the Three of Clubs. Though seemingly engrossed in his game of Solitaire, he was far more aware of what was going on around him than of the columns of cards on the table in front of him.

Garrison and Yates had disappeared but, with Actor in the room, they undoubtedly had alert eyes and ears waiting for an injudicious action or word. It had been no surprise when Actor had engaged him in conversation earlier, and he had enjoyed their duel of wits, rather more than he had enjoyed those over the daily interrogations, when he had three sharp minds rather than just one to worry about. Now, though, Actor was concentrating on Jaenicke. Their conversation seemed intimate, their voices too low to hear. Krantz wished he knew what they were talking about.

So, apparently, did Chief, who looked towards them at every opportunity during his game of darts with Casino. Krantz had the impression that Chief did not like Jaenicke, but then he did not seem to like anyone very much.

It had been Goniff who had teased him into the darts match, and who was now keeping score with many ribald comments, mostly aimed at Casino.

Goniff and Casino were his own main interest. He had taken the measure of Chief and Actor during their journey back from Germany. Garrison's record spoke for itself, as did his ability to lead men like Chief and Actor and earn the respect of such superiors as Colonel Yates. Casino and Goniff, though, were still unknown quantities. Their air of licensed clowns must be camouflage – but what, exactly, did it conceal?

"Hey, wait a minute," Casino's voice rose in protest. "That was the score you said last time. You little limey bastard. Have you got a bet on the side or somethin'?"

"Who'd be fool enough to bet against Chiefy? You know he could beat you blindfold—"

"Why you little—"

Jaenicke looked up from his conversation with Actor. "You are strange soldiers," he observed.

It diverted the men from their squabble. "We ain't soldiers," Casino told him, with an air of being affronted. "We're convicts – criminals. Uncle Sam offered us paroles if we worked for him."

"For the duration an' six months, as the Warden keeps remindin' us."

Krantz kept his face unmoving as he bent over the cards, but he chalked up another victory to von Staaden's insight. His commander had said: _"The Americans will try anything to see if it works. And if you need a crime committed, you employ criminals."_

"But Craig Garrison is no crook," Jaenicke was protesting.

"Naw. He's Army to the core. I guess he musta offended someone important to have landed up as a screw. A prison officer," Casino elucidated, at Jaenicke's blank look.

"That's why we call 'im the 'Warden'," Goniff explained. "Casino 'ere, he's a safecracker. Actor's a con man – sorry, mate, confidence _artiste._ Me, the Beak said I was a loft man, climbed into bedrooms t'nick valuables, but of course I was framed..."

"And Chief?" Jaenicke asked, glancing towards the Indian.

Metal glinted as the blade fell open into Chief's palm. He tossed it into the air and caught it as it tumbled, though his eyes didn't move from Jaenicke's face. "Whadda you think, kraut?"

Krantz looked up sharply from his game of Solitaire, telling himself that it was justified from the tone of Chief's voice.

"I think," Jaenicke said, back stiffening, "that you kill – both for money and because you enjoy it."

"Maybe," Chief drawled, his most dangerous smile creeping over his features.

Krantz looked quickly to Actor, but he was staring at the door, as if he expected rescue to come through it – or at least was hoping that it would. He shifted in his chair, plainly hesitating.

"Aw, com'on, mate," Goniff said, shuffling forwards so he was in what would be the direct line of flight if Chief threw the knife. "You'd spoil the carpet. Besides, how's the Warden gonna explain it to the Brass, huh?"

At the reference to Garrison, Chief hesitated an instant, then snapped his knife shut. "I'm gonna get some air," he announced.

Once he had gone, the atmosphere lightened noticeably. Goniff scrubbed his yellow hair with one hand as he regarded Jaenicke wryly. "Blimey, mate, you know how to live dangerously, don't you?"

Jaenicke stared at him, the colour suddenly draining from his face. "Surely he would not have used the knife? I thought he was merely trying to scare me."

"With Chief, you never can tell," Casino said.

"But I had said nothing—"

"Guess he don't like you much. Don't sweat it. He don't like anyone much – 'cept maybe the Warden."

"Oh, Chiefy's all right," Goniff protested. "He just 'asn't bin brought up proper. He'll be fine when he gets to know you better. ' E just don't make friends quickly, see?"

"You were also a little too close to the mark," Actor said. "Convicts have their own etiquette, _Hautpmann_ and, if I may advise you, it is not 'done' to refer so bluntly to a man's method of making a living unless he does so first. Sometimes not even then. Particularly when the convict involved is Chief."

Casino shook his head. "Chief don't kill for a livin' – he kills when someone annoys him. And he annoys real easy." His grin was malicious.

Goniff took pity on Jaenicke, who was now white to the gills. "It's okay, mate. 'E don't knife anyone nowadays without a nod from the Leftenant. So you're safe enough. 'E was just trying to put the wind up you."

Maybe, Krantz thought, but why? If it was suspicion, perhaps something was going to have to be done to put Chief out of the picture. Perhaps permanently.

 

From Jaenicke, Actor had obtained Garrison's mother's first name, Emma, and the man's obvious affection for her. Persuading Yates's office staff to give him James Garrison's London station took longer. Though tied down for some time by the interrogation, when he did break free it took a relatively easy con to bring him their home number and James's schedule.

He considered the telephone or arranging a chance encounter, but the former held too many risks and getting enough free time to ensure the success of the latter was impossible in the circumstances. Instead, he sat down and wrote a short but difficult letter to Emma Garrison and arranged for it to be delivered when James was at work.

 

"Well," Yates said, looking down at the Intelligence report open on the desk between his curved hands, "there's no doubt that Kesselring's jumpy about the partisans, and this reports the arrival of someone called Müller to take control of operations eighteen days before we were contacted by Jaenicke. Müller's been out of Italy a couple of times since then, probably reporting to von Staaden or even to Berlin, but he's back now, apparently."

"What about the OSS cell in Lindenbronn?" Garrison asked.

"I got an extremely sharp reply asking what evidence I had for such a theory – the sort of automatic answer you make when you suspect something yourself and don't want anyone else interfering."

"All ties in so far," Garrison said. "What do we do now?"

"I've sent Simon and his team to Italy to make contact with the local partisans through Frazini. They'll set things up and keep an eye on Müller's HQ."

Garrison lifted his eyebrows. "That's not like you. You've always been one for the quick strike in and out before anyone's got a chance to expect it. Even if Gottlieb and Jaenicke are genuine, Müller could be a phoney, and even if he's not, the partisans will know we're there, and probably half the local population to boot."

"Maybe Actor's suspicions have affected me. I'm not sure about Gottlieb and Jaenicke, certainly not sure about Müller. I want to be positive before we strike."

"But we have to try, sir. This is going to be our only chance—"

"Is this 'we' Allied Intelligence or 'we' Garrison's Gorillas?"

There was a pause. Garrison said: "I wish you'd thought up a less embarrassing code name. It always makes me feel I'm running a trained animal act."

"In a three-ringed circus – and I'm still waiting for an answer, Lieutenant Garrison."

"Either. Both."

"You've been itching to try your hand against von Staaden since his name first came up."

"So have you... sir."

"General Franks has ruled that I'm not to take the risk personally. I'm still not sure that you're fit to take it. And I don't need to use you, specifically."

"I think you do, sir."

Yates leaned lazily back in his chair and gave Garrison a long and suspicious look. "Oh, do you? All right, Lieutenant, I'll bite. Why?"

Garrison smiled. "I have a plan, sir."

"I don't doubt it. And I have every intention of letting that diabolical tactical imagination of yours loose on the problem, but I'm sure that either your plan can be adapted for someone else, or that you can come up with something equally effective for another team."

"No, sir. I've been talking to Jaenicke and Gottlieb, as you suggested, and they've provided some very interesting information..."

 

Seated in the expensive cafe just half a mile from the Garrisons' apartment, Actor lingered over his coffee, wondering again at the English talent for turning the perfect stimulant into sludge, when a soft voice said, " _Signore_ Tesauro?"

Emma Garrison was small and slight, with rich brown hair and spectacularly lovely violet eyes. The thing that was to strike Actor most about her over the next few minutes was her gentleness, which, with her politeness and those quiet tones, were the only things about her that in the least reminded him of her son.

Now he seated her in her chair with much ceremony, called the waiter to order more coffee and offered her a cigarette.

"Thank you, no. _Signore_ , please, is Craig in trouble?"

"No, no, of course not." Actor was horrified that she could have drawn such a conclusion from his letter. "He's been ill, but—"

"Ill?" It was Emma's turn to be horrified.

"But he's almost well again." Actor reached across the table and took her hands to stop them clenching and unclenching in her napkin. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you. I thought he must have mentioned his illness when he wrote to you, but maybe the censors—"

" _Signore_ , your letter was the first I'd heard of Craig in four months. I'm not even sure my own letters were reaching him— They weren't, were they?"

"No," Actor said. "Not recently, anyway."

"He's here? In England? I can see him? But why all the secrecy?"

Actor hesitated, reluctant to raise more family difficulties. Still, she had a right to know. "He... has been ill. And I wanted to be sure that seeing you would not upset him the way meeting his father did."

" _What?_ You're telling me that James has seen Craig? Recently?" Actor nodded in response. "I don't believe— Well, actually, yes I do, damn him." Her mouth made an attempt to look grim, and failed.

"It was official business," Actor said, "though I think the Colonel – your son's commanding officer – also planned it as a surprise for him. It was, too, just not a pleasant one."

"What happened?"

"It was all very cold and formal and, at the end, rather nasty in a polite sort of way."

"Like delegates from hostile powers," Emma said. "It's the only way James knows to deal with opposition. And he is inordinately stubborn."

"And the Lieutenant isn't?" Actor asked, with feeling.

They looked into each other's eyes, and giggled.

"Yes," Emma said, "but Craig will acknowledge defeat. James won't, at least where the boys were concerned. He was always harder on Craig, anyway, I think because he can see his mother so clearly in him."

Actor's eyebrows shot up. "But—?"

"You didn't know? Craig isn't my son... well, not physically. His mother, James's first wife, died when Craig was only five months old."

"No," Actor said slowly, trying to digest this information and wondering if it would give him any new insights into what made Garrison tick. "No, I didn't know. He's never even hinted at it. He always refers to you as 'Mom'."

"So I'm not your idea of a wicked stepmother?" Emma was smiling again.

"Far from it. You're my idea of a perfect stepmother. I don't suppose you'd adopt me, too?"

And this time she laughed. "Not another one, please. I'm not perfect, _Signore_ , but I love Craig very much. So does James, but he sees all his mother's fire and brilliance and reckless courage in him and he's always been scared that it will kill him, the way it did her."

"I can understand that," Actor said. "He scares me too."

"And me. It was why James was so set against him going into the army – apart from considering it 'a waste of a fine mind'." Emma's mimicry of her husband might have been unconscious, but it was deadly. "Besides, Kenny had been set on that route for years – it was a family 'given' – and then Craig, who had never even expressed an interest in the military, suddenly announced that he'd been accepted for West Point, with the senior Senator ready to sponsor him without any reference to us... Well, you can imagine the ensuing row. Or perhaps you can't." She laughed suddenly and shook her head. "Tell me, _Signore_ Tesauro, do people always pour out their family problems to you like this?"

"I'm a good listener," Actor said. "And... Craig... means a great deal to me, too."

"I could tell that from your letter, and the way you're being so protective towards him. Not many people think Craig needs protecting. You have to know him very well to realise he's vulnerable at all."

"You'll have to meet Chief," Actor said. "Protecting the Lieutenant is his central aim in life."

Emma smiled. "Everyone should have an aim in life, _Signore._ Right now mine is to see my son. Will you arrange it?"

Actor rose to his feet, took her hand and bowed over it. "At once, _Signora._ "

 

As he drove back to the Dower House, Actor reflected with growing uneasiness on the ending of his conversation with Emma Garrison. Why did Chief think Garrison needed protection? And why did Garrison let him get away with it?

Because they were lovers?

The more he tried to get the idea out of his mind, the more it clung on, scrabbling frantically for further handholds. 

It would explain so much: Garrison's oddly close relationship with Chief, Chief's adoration of Garrison and his dislike of Jaenicke, Jaenicke's wariness around Chief and the overly-personal yet strained relationship between Garrison and Jaenicke.

An old lover – first love? – finding someone else installed?

It couldn't be true. But if it was...

Where does that leave me? Actor asked himself. A perpetual outsider watching a friend destroy himself?

If this came out, Garrison was finished. Hell, it wasn't even legal in England. He could end up court martialled again, in jail—

And even if those risks hadn't been there, even if the thought of him going to bed with another man was—

Forget that. Even if there was no risk, Chief was wrong for Garrison. Forget that he was a murderer, not totally sane, he would still be plain wrong. Garrison didn't need someone to worship his perfection, he needed an intellectual and emotional equal, someone _he_ could lean on occasionally.

Like Werner Jaenicke?

Actor shook himself, trying to throw the thought away. Jaenicke was lightweight, nowhere near as mature as Garrison or in any way his intellectual equal—

Well, who was?

Oh come on, Actor lectured himself. I'm starting to think like Chief. In a minute I'll be imagining he's having an affair with Yates. Which only shows how unlikely this whole idea is...

Only Chief, unlike Yates, was young and very handsome with a truly beautiful body—

–half-breed murderer, in lust with those damn knives–

Surely Garrison couldn't be that stupid?

Lust makes anyone stupid, love causes complete idiocy.

Garrison was too sensible to take such a risk for lust alone but love now... Love was an entirely different matter.

It was a conclusion that came back to haunt him even as he made his plans.

 

 **Chapter 6**

 

It was a profoundly beautiful day, of the sort Southern England produced occasionally to con visiting Americans – the locals were too experienced to fall for it – into a false sense of security. The sun shone from a sky unsullied by clouds, while a light breeze off the sea kept it from becoming too hot and muggy.

A perfect day, Garrison had told his men cheerfully, for a little training to start brushing up their fitness and skills after being stood down for so long. Starting with a morning run.

His men had bristled, for various reasons. Neither Goniff nor Casino were pleased with the disruption of their plans, which no doubt included lying out in the sun with the newspapers, then strolling down to the nearest hostelry – the Dog and Duck – for a lunchtime pint or three.

Chief was plainly offended by the implication he might have lost his edge, particularly as he and Actor had been in the field so recently, and was even less amused when he found the two Germans were coming along.

Garrison wasn't sure what was upsetting Actor. The conman knew as well as he did that they had to keep the Germans with them, so that anything they said or did could be noted and analysed, while giving the impression that they were trusted, so it couldn't be that. On the other hand, from the way Actor was watching him as he steered them at a steady pace through the park towards the sea, it might be this new and irritating – and altogether heart-warming – over-protectiveness towards himself. That had to be discouraged. If Actor thought he was going to fall over he'd be disappointed; he'd started getting himself back in shape soon after Yates's improvised team left for Germany and he'd be fine if he took notice of warning signs like shortness of breath...

He shoved the thought aside. In his heart he knew Actor was right; he wasn't physically ready for this mission against von Staaden, but that wasn't important; no-one else could do the job.

Anger at his own conscience made him set a sharper pace through the trees, and before they reached the headland he had begun to feel the effects. Well, at least being in charge gave him the opportunity to cover his mistakes. "Take five," he ordered, stopping in the open just beyond the trees, where the land dropped away towards the bay. He then added, "Rest awhile," in German for Gottlieb's benefit. He'd had to control his breathing before he could get the words out, but deliberately waited so that he was the last to lower himself to the sheep-shorn turf.

He hoped no-one noticed how difficult he found it to catch his breath.

 

Don't think you're fooling me for a moment, Actor thought, watching the rise and fall of Garrison's chest. The Warden had been very careful not to rush himself or appear fatigued – a care that told its own story. Chief was eyeing him with barely-concealed alarm. Actor caught his eye, indicated Garrison with a movement of his own, and then put a finger to his lips.

Chief's look in return said: "I hope you're right."

So did Actor.

 _"Command means supporting those above you as well as representing those below,"_ Garrison had said, but Actor was beginning to feel the strain of giving that support. Surely Yates wouldn't send the Warden on a mission while he was like this? But Garrison had implied that one was immanent. _The_ mission.

He needed rather desperately to talk to Garrison alone. No chance of that here, but if all went to plan this afternoon...

"It isn't easy to believe in the war right now," Jaenicke was saying to Garrison, in German. The two of them were sitting shoulder to shoulder, looking out to sea, while Jaenicke drew on his newly-lit cigarette. Garrison had refused one. That also told a story.

"No. With the scenery, and you here, it's far easier to believe we're back vacationing on the Baltic, with Manfred and Kenny playing on the beach below. We never did look after them the way we were supposed to, did we?"

"I think they'd've thrown rocks at us we we'd tried. And now they're dead, and no doubt this beach is mined, just like the one we used to play on is."

"And both covered in barbed wire..." Garrison smiled, then added, so softly that Actor, lying on his back only a few feet away, had to strain to overhear, "Some things change, my friend, others stay the same forever. I've missed you, Werner."

Jaenicke swallowed convulsively. "And I you, Craig."

If Actor didn't find much pleasure in his eavesdropping, at least he had the benefit of understanding what was being said; Chief had no such advantage, but he understood Garrison's intimate tone.

"If you've got something to say, speak English, kraut," he advised Jaenicke.

Jaenicke returned the look with contempt. "If I need you to understand I will speak English. Slowly."

"Chief!" Garrison said, in sharp command as the Indian started to come to his feet, the blade snapping open into his hand.

Casino and Goniff rolled quickly aside, and even Gottlieb raised himself on his elbows to watch what was happening.

Chief didn't put the knife away, but he didn't throw it, either. Instead, he looked straight at Garrison and said, "He's got a big mouth, Warden."

"You started it," Garrison snapped. "And you know the rules. So sheathe that blade before I take it away from you."

There was a dangerous silence. Then Chief shrugged and replaced the knife before finishing his rise and walking away to look out over the Channel. His back was stiff.

"And Werner, you be careful," Garrison went on, in German. "Chief... is dangerous – and dear to me."

"Then I am sorry," Jaenicke said.

"Okay," Garrison got to his feet and brushed the grass from his pants. "Come on, stir yourselves. The Sergeant Major has set up a target range specially for you back at the house." 

"Geez, Warden, you're all heart."

 

Lunch had been strained, and Chief did not appear, had not been seen since the end of target practice. It was a bad way to start an afternoon Actor had hoped would be a special one for Garrison.

He brought the car round to the front of the house, then went to find him. It didn't take long. The door to his office was standing open, and he could hear Garrison's voice beyond it, though the words were indistinguishable.

As he raised his hand to rap on the door, he paused. Chief was with Garrison, standing close to him beside the window. Garrison had a hand on the Indian's shoulder. "Suspicion is one thing, Chief," he was saying, "but outright enmity is another. It's not helping the situation and it's certainly not helping me. Nothing's changed between us, Chief, unless you no longer trust me?"

The look that passed between them was intense. Just for an instant, there was open adoration on Chief's face. It was a look that had always annoyed Actor. Now, he found that it dismayed him. So did Chief's mumbled: "Only ever trusted you."

So much for the team.

He knocked sharply at the door.

"Come in, Actor," Garrison said, with what looked like relief on his face. Chief, on the other hand, gave him a cold stare as he exited.

So much for the team, indeed.

Garrison hitched his hip on the edge of the desk. He was smiling, if a little warily. "You haven't got any more problems for me, have you?"

"No. Instead I'm going to take you away from them for a few hours."

Garrison shook his head. "Actor, I can't—"

"Nonsense," Actor said, taking his arm – his uninjured left arm, as he was always careful to do, even now – and hauling him to his feet. "You need the break. Besides, without you here the Germans will relax – and if they're going to make an error, it'll be when they think we trust them." As he spoke, Actor was steering him out of the door, without, he was pleased to note, much resistance.

At the car, though, Garrison dug in his heels. "Actor, I'm not going anywhere with you until you tell me what this is about."

"And spoil my surprise?" Actor asked, with a soulful look.

"A surprise or a nasty shock?"

"Lieutenant... would I?"

Garrison folded his arms. "Undoubtedly," he said grimly.

"Such a lack of faith. You wound me terribly. Oh well," Actor shrugged, and opened the car door. "I'll just have to go by myself, then, and leave you to wonder what you're missing."

"And I'm not falling for that one."

Actor looked him straight in the eyes. "It's a nice surprise," he said, matter-of-factly, with his widest smile. "You'll like it, Warden. Really."

And, to his delight, Garrison capitulated. "Okay," he said, laughing as he climbed into the passenger seat. "But it'd better be."

 

As he drove through the English country lanes, he did not need to look at Garrison in the seat beside him to know he was beginning to wind down. He also knew the other man was watching him but was untroubled by the familiar scrutiny; it had been like this for a long time now, when they were alone together, a result of the slow dissolve of the barriers of rank and age, background and morality that meant they didn't need to speak to act in perfect harmony, particularly when they were on a mission.

Were they? Or would they be very soon?

He ought to break this particular spell of contentment with several sharp questions about Garrison's behaviour this morning – if not about his conversations with Jaenicke and Chief.

He found he couldn't do it. The atmosphere between them was too good, too tranquil and too trusting. It was strange, this lack of a need to talk, or getting a response from someone; just needing them to be there, and be happy.

Did Garrison act like this with Chief – or Jaenicke?

Damn such suspicions to the inner circles of Hell—

"Are we late for this mysterious appointment?" Garrison asked.

"No. Why?"

"You just hit sixty."

"Sorry." Actor took his foot off the gas pedal.

"She'd better be something special."

Actor glanced sideways, only to be met with Garrison's most bland expression. "What makes you think there's a woman involved?" he asked, forcing his eyes back to the road before he killed them both.

"Too late," Garrison told him. "Score one to me."

"This isn't a competition, Warden."

There was a silence from the seat beside him, and he heard the leather creak as Garrison shifted uncomfortably. "It didn't ought to be, did it?" he said at last. "Guess I do need a break."

"It's a bad combination, being tired _and_ strung out."

"The Nanny role doesn't really suit you, Actor."

"It's the uniform. Aprons and low heels aren't really me." Actor risked another sideways glance and caught a smile. "There's nothing I'd like more than to be able to abandon it," he added.

"In favour of party frocks and high heels?"

"In favour of letting you do all the worrying. You're so much better at it than I am."

Actor turned the car off the High Street of the small market town, into a road where Georgian town houses eventually gave way to timber-framed cottages that would have been picture-postcard if their gardens hadn't been given over to vegetables rather than the traditional jumble of flowers. At least it made it easier to read the names and numbers on the gateposts.

"What are we looking for?" Garrison asked, unable to restrain his curiosity.

"Oak Tree Cottage. It belongs to a friend of mine."

"Will she be there?"

"No, _he_ won't be," Actor said, parking the car on the grass verge beside a large, two storey building that didn't look at all like a cottage to Garrison's eyes. "He's in New York, where there aren't any bombs but lots of opportunities to profit from them. I picked up the keys while we were over there – or rather, Goniff picked them up for me. After they tried to Court Martial you I figured we might need somewhere to hole up now the Army knows about the laundry."

"You must have something pretty big on this guy," Garrison observed, as he followed Actor towards the door.

"Friendship, pure friendship. And getting him the Cézannes he wanted. It also makes an excellent neutral meeting place." Actor pushed open the door which, to Garrison's surprise, was already unlocked, and turned right and stood back to let him lead the way into a cluttered sitting room.

A small, dark, _wonderfully_ familiar woman was standing on the hearthrug, smiling at them. At him.

"Mom?" he whispered, unable to believe she could be real. 

"Craig, darling..." She held out her arms and he dived for their security as if he was once again five years old and Emma the centre of his world. It didn't matter that now he was a foot taller than she was, that his hug lifted her off the floor; only that she was still as soft and warm, her voice and her hands stroking his hair as gentle as they had been then. He was crying but that didn't matter either. Emma was the only person he'd ever let see him cry. Besides, she was crying too.

"Craig, oh, thank God. Thank _God_ you're all right."

"Mom, I'm so sorry about Kenny," he said, finding relief in the words, and in the truth behind them.

"I know, darling. I know. It's all right."

"I keep thinking, if I'd done things differently—"

Emma's arms tightened. "If you'd done things differently you might both be dead. It's not your fault Kenny couldn't beat you. Nor that he felt he had to. That's... Just not your fault." She pushed him back and inspected him. "You look older," she decided. "And too pale. _Signore_ Tesauro said you'd been ill—"

" _Signore_ who?" Garrison frowned, then, following Emma's glance towards the now-closed door, grinned. "Oh, Actor. Well, that's a new one."

"New what?"

"Alias. He specialises in them. You've not given him any money, have you? Or lost any jewellery lately?"

"No!" Emma banged her fist on his chest. "Idiot child."

"No? Then he must like you."

"He also thinks the world of you," Emma said, in rebuke.

"I think the world of him, too, but that doesn't mean I'd bet on his resisting temptat—"

"We're not talking about him, Craig," Emma interrupted. "We're talking about you. You have been ill, haven't you?"

"I'm fine, Mom," Garrison said, automatically. "Really." Then, when Emma looked sceptical, "I took a bullet in the shoulder, but it was just a flesh wound, and it's healed now." Though he'd had so much practice at lying over the last few years and believed he'd gotten extremely good at it, he felt suddenly uncertain that he'd improved enough to start fooling Emma. He certainly didn't appear to be able to fool Actor, at least over this. "There's no need to worry," he added, then wondered if that was protesting too much.

"Of course I worry," Emma said tartly. "So does your father."

Garrison knew excuses would be useless. "Mom, Father—" he started, and got no further.

"I've told you before, one of you's got to give a little. And he won't."

"I've tried, Mom, I really have. I just don't know what he wants from me."

"For you to conform," Emma said, "to fit in with what he considers proper behaviour for his son."

"I can't do that, Mom."

Emma sighed. "I know. Your mother wouldn't fit in with your father's idea of how his wife should behave, either. And you're very like her."

Garrison was silently astonished. Emma never talked about his mother – in accordance with his father's dicta, according to his Uncle Andrew, who didn't like James Garrison. He said lightly, hoping to encourage her into further revelations, "So Uncle Andy says, but I don't look in the least like that portrait he has of her. Or the photos."

"You have her colouring," Emma said, "her eyes, and her smile. Not to mention her recklessness. It's that part that troubles your father."

"It's not recklessness," Garrison protested. "I can't afford to be reckless. I doubt Mother could, either."

Emma smiled rather sadly. "That's exactly what she would have said. But it's not how it looks to your Fath—"

"Then why the Hell did he marry her?"

"You don't have to understand someone's view of themselves to love them, Craig. Your mother was my dearest friend, but I can't say I understood her, either." There was a strained note in Emma's voice and she turned away abruptly to look for something in her purse.

"Mom? You all right?"

"Yes." Finding a handkerchief, Emma dabbed at her eyes. "Even now, I find it difficult to talk about Kirstin without seeing that darn plane spinning out of control, and the fireball when—" She stopped, and dabbed harder.

"You were there? Mom, why didn't you tell me before? Uncle Andy won't talk about it—"

"None of us like to talk about it. And we were all scared that if we did, young as you were, you might remember something."

"I was there?"

"Umm. You weren't even six months old. Kirsty used to bring you down to the airfield quite often. You were very good about the noise. She used to say that was because you'd flown so often with her while she was pregnant."

"I bet Father hadn't liked that."

"He'd hated it. He'd thought getting pregnant would keep her out of danger, but she flew until she was too big to get into the cockpit. I think even then he was sure that when you were born she'd somehow be miraculously transformed into a suitable wife, hostess and mother..."

"And she wasn't."

"No. She said the Firecracker was just as much her baby as you were and no-one else was going to test—" Emma stopped again, burying her face in her hands.

Garrison put his arms round her. "You don't have to say any more, Mom."

"Yes I do. James and I, we not only buried Kirstin, we locked her away from you, as if that could stop you being her son. That's not fair on you or her."

"Uncle Andrew—"

"Oh, Andrew. His vision of Kirstin is as blinkered as James's. He's given you a picture of some sanitised heroine, and that wasn't Kirsty at all. Sometimes she was so... awkward... I... I wanted to slap her."

Garrison began to laugh. "I bet Father did too." He felt Emma stiffen. "Did he?" he demanded, turning Emma to face him. "And has he ever hit you?" Because if he has...

"No. No, of course not. But... Oh, it was so difficult, the way they shouted at each other. They quarrelled about everything – I'll swear Kirsty enjoyed it – but it always came back to her obsession with flying. That was one of the reasons your Uncle Andrew had to promise never to take you up in a plane before your Father would even let you visit him."

"Mom, I made my first solo touchdown when I was ten. Uncle Andy had promised Mother he'd teach me to fly, the way he'd taught her. Whatever Father commanded wasn't worth beans to him compared with that. He just waited until he was sure I knew how to keep my mouth shut."

"So _that's_ why Andrew's peeved you're in the Infantry, not the Air Force."

"Now that really would have blown it with Father."

Emma looked sceptical. "I thought that would have been encouragement for you to do it."

"To be honest, his feelings didn't matter, one way or the other. I'm interested in tactics, and command. Air Force flying is either gladiatorial combat or dumping bombs on people you can't see. If I'm to kill someone, I prefer to face the results."

Emma shuddered. "I can't imagine you killing anyone."

"Then don't try. Let's talk about something else. How much time have we got, anyhow?"

"I don't know how long you have, but I'll have to start back at four. Your father will expect me for dinner."

"He doesn't know you're here?" Garrison asked. "It's not like you to do anything behind his back."

"Maybe I'm learning from you," Emma said lightly. "Let's forget your father. I've got other news for you. I heard from Sara yesterday – Sara Ward."

Garrison's stomach contracted. "Yes?"

"She said you'd not told her how to get in touch with you, so she'd written to me. She was so grateful for your letter, and that you'd been with Richie when he died... I've brought her letter for you." She drew an envelope from her purse and pressed it into his hand. "And one from Peggy, if you'd like to see it."

Garrison was shaking his head as he unfolded the letter. "Mom, you're not still encouraging Peggy, are you? She'll be better off forgetting me."

"What makes you think she can?" Emma raised her hands, as she was the subject of a piercing stare. "All right, Craig. I won't mention her again. I'm sorry about Richard, by the way."

"That's something else I'd rather not talk about. Let's see what Sara has to say, then you can tell me all the family gossip."

 

Garrison and Emma found Actor snoozing in a deckchair under the oak tree that had given the cottage its name, an open bottle of wine wedged into its roots.

"Did your friend give you the key to his cellar too?" Garrison asked.

One dark eye opened. "Of course."

"I'll bet. Is that the second bottle, or the third?"

"First," Actor said, opening both eyes and jamming the cork back into the neck of the bottle. "We'll finish it back at the house." He smiled at Emma. "It's all right. I'm used to him going all responsible and military and rude. May I drive you back to the station?"

"Are you fit to?" Garrison asked.

Both Actor and Emma ignored him. The woman shook her head. "No, thank you. I'd rather say good-bye to Craig here."

"I understand. I'll lock up and go start the car," Actor said.

Emma caught his arm. "No, wait. I want to thank you. You've been so kind."

"You don't need to. If you're both happy, then so am I." Actor kissed her hand in his best gallant cavalier manner, with a warning look at Garrison, who commendably did not comment. "Keep the key I gave you. You may find the place useful again, and I know you won't steal the silver."

"Thank you. I want to see you again, too – and meet this Chief person you mentioned. Is he in the Navy?"

Actor, unfamiliar with Navy non-commissioned ranks, looked puzzled. "No."

Garrison chuckled. "Nor in the Army. No self respecting Service would have him. Have you been talking out of turn, Actor?"

"No. Merely assuring Emma that there are other people looking out for you."

Garrison's eyebrows went up. "Emma?"

"I'll go start the car."

 

Garrison was quiet for the first part of the ride home, and Actor made no move to break a silence that was friendly and contented. For a little while back there, he'd almost felt part of a family again.

Hearing the crackle of paper, he glanced sideways. "Not another letter from the dreaded Jenny?"

"No, from Sara Ward, Captain Ward's wife. I wrote her just after he died."

He didn't sound upset. "You were pretty close to Ward, weren't you?" Actor prompted.

"Ummm. We hadn't seen much of each other since he left West Point, but he invited me to be Best Man at his wedding. And their son's named after me."

"It can't have been an easy letter for you to write, particularly as you must have just heard about your brother."

"No. It wasn't... but I couldn't let Sara think Richie had died alone. And she doesn't blame me at all, wants to see me when I get back to the States." He sounded surprised.

"Of course she does. Your memories of her husband will be as precious to her as they are to you. You haven't really lost Ward while she and her son are still your friends."

"That's very profound, Actor. And comforting. Something else I owe you for, apart from finding Mom. It's gonna take a pretty big favour to repay you."

Actor shook his head. "I've been repaid enough. Besides, it amuses me to circumvent your father. I have to admit I don't like him much."

"You don't know him," Garrison pointed out.

"I know enough."

"You're as prejudiced as he is – but it's good to know you're on my side."

"Always," Actor said. "Even when you don't think so... Hello, what's happening at the house?"

They had just turned into the drive, which had been empty when they left. Now there were two cars parked in front of the wide curve of steps that led to the terrace and the main entrance: one was a familiar official staff car, with a driver at the wheel, the other an ancient faded-green Hillman that Actor recognised as belonging to the local doctor.

Garrison was out of the car before Actor had the parking brake on, striding up the steps at a speed that had the longer-legged conman struggling to keep up.

Inside the front door, the severe black-and-white hall was full of familiar GIs, all talking loudly to each other. They snapped to attention when they saw Garrison like a reversed film of toppling dominoes, the sound fading with the action. As silence fell, Actor realised that there were other raised voices, farther away.

"Where?" Garrison asked the nearest GI.

"Your office, sir."

Garrison nodded thanks and strode on, the noise growing behind them again as he passed through the drawing room and pushed open the door to his 'office' beyond it.

He stopped dead. Peering over his shoulder, Actor saw a series of tableau: Gottlieb, remonstrating with Colonel Yates in German as Casino did the same in English; Chief, sitting dark and brooding on the window seat, glaring at the Sergeant-Major, who was standing guard over him with a grim face and a rock-steady revolver in his hand; and Goniff holding Dr Tunney's bag as the confused-looking medic finished stitching the cut that stretched across Jaenicke's left cheek.

Garrison was at his old friend's side in an instant. "Werner, what the Hell happened?" he asked anxiously, one hand on the German's shoulder.

Jaenicke looked up into his face, swallowed, and burst into a flood of German. He had been at the top of the stairs, where it is so dim... He had sensed someone behind him and started to turn. Something had hit his face – he had staggered back, fallen down the steps... 

"I'm afraid it looks like Chief's handiwork," Yates said.

Garrison shook his head.

"Story is, he threatened Jaenicke earlier today."

"Yes, but—" Garrison turned towards Chief, who stared back calmly, relaxed in his assurance that now Garrison was here this stupid mess would be sorted out.

"If it'd bin me, I wouldn'ta missed," he said.

"Oh, Chief..." Garrison said, in exasperation. Then his chin came up. "Your word to me: did you do this?"

"No."

"Okay, get out of here. Goniff, Casino, you go with him, grab something to eat – and send something in here. Sergeant Major, clear those GIs out of the hallway. Doctor, how serious is this?"

"The cut is superficial, but he may end up with a small scar," Tunney said. "Otherwise he's going to be sore for the next week or so, mainly from falling down stairs."

"Thank you..." It was said on a breath of relief.

"Oh, don't thank me. My life has become so much more interesting since you people came to stay. I don't suppose you're going to tell me what a couple of Germans are doing here? No? Thought not."

"I'm afraid I must ask you to treat all this in the strictest confidence," Yates said.

"I'll save it for my memoirs," Tunney said crisply, shutting his bag. Then, to Jaenicke, "You take it easy. The stitches need to come out in a week or so." In turn, he eyed Garrison, "And how are you feeling? You look a bit pale."

"I'm fine," Garrison said firmly. "Thank you, Doctor. You know where to send your check... sorry, bill."

The Doctor gave him another assessing look, but said nothing further as he made his way out. Once the door had closed behind him, the conversation continued in German to include Gottlieb. "Were you here when it happened?" Garrison asked Yates.

"No. I came in looking for you to find Goniff giving _Hauptmann_ Jaenicke emergency first aid and Casino and Major Gottlieb arguing."

Garrison's mouth twisted; you couldn't have quite called it a smile, but there was amusement there all the same. "That must have been interesting since neither could have understood a word the other was saying."

"That did not seem important at the time," Gottlieb said. "I was in the garden and heard a noise. When I came in, I found Casino and Goniff bending over Werner, who was bleeding. I'm afraid I assumed the worse..."

"Casino and Goniff were efficient and very kind," Jaenicke said. Then he chuckled. "When I tried to tell the Major to stop shouting at Casino, Goniff told me relax, because I wasn't going to be able to stop Casino shouting at the Major." His voice took on Cockney tones as he reverted to English in mimicry: "'Even the Leftenant's bleedin' well given up.'"

Garrison looked at Yates. "I take it you managed it?"

"Well, I got him yelling at me, instead... At least until the Sergeant Major – who'd come in with me – took a look at _Hauptmann_ Jaenicke's face, asked, 'Where's that blooming Indian?' and called out the guard to find him. Then I had to stop him belting the Sergeant Major."

"The Sergeant Major has never liked Chief."

"He drew the natural conclusion," Yates said sharply. "One I'd arrived at myself. One that I suspect you've arrived at too, or you wouldn't be so defensive." Then his expression softened. "I know how much you value Chief, but don't forget the man's record. He's a killer."

"He was provoked."

"He has a record of violent crime that would be impressive in someone twice his age." Yates looked beyond Garrison to Actor. "What do you think?"

Actor wasn't sure what he thought, but he did know where his loyalties lay. "I don't know what the evidence is," he said, "but I do not believe that Chief would lie to the Lieutenant." His reward was an intensely grateful look.

"Werner?" Garrison asked.

"I saw nothing of the man who attacked me. Indeed, I couldn't swear it was a man."

Garrison turned back to Yates. "So the evidence is all circumstantial?"

"Someone threw a _knife_ , son. You and Actor weren't here. Casino and Goniff were downstairs – Jaenicke himself vouches for that – and, according to them, Major Gottlieb arrived from the garden only moments later. That leaves the Sergeant Major and the troops. The Sergeant Major met me outside, and I don't think he, or any of the guards, would use a knife as a weapon of choice, or throw it that well. Besides, they have no motive, and Gottlieb tells me that Chief threatened Jaenicke earlier today and you had to intervene."

Garrison glanced suspiciously at Gottlieb. "He's not supposed to understand English."

"I understand the tone of voice," Gottlieb said, "and that you told Werner that Chief was dangerous. Also that he was dear to you."

"That's not—" Garrison bit his lip, then drew a deep breath. "Chief has a hot temper. He might do something stupid on the spur of the moment, but premeditation is not his style... nor is it in his record, Colonel."

The two men glared at each other, then Yates muttered something under his breath, before addressing the three fascinated spectators: "Gentlemen, I need to talk to the Lieutenant alone. The rest of you better go have dinner – and stay away from Chief, for the present. No, Lieutenant," he held up a hand as Garrison started to protest. "You can have your say later, but you're going to have to be a damn sight more convincing than you have been so far. Major Gottlieb, you watch out for _Hauptmann_ Jaenicke."

"I intend to."

 

It was yet another night when Actor did not sleep well – in fact, did not sleep at all, the events of the evening having shattered the warm glow of his rapport with Garrison.

His guts churned at the memory of the Lieutenant's fierce defence of Chief and his concern for Jaenicke, as his words repeated themselves over and over in his mind: _"Some things change, my friend, others stay the same forever... Chief is... dear to me."_

He could see no explanation other than it had been Chief who attacked Jaenicke and he could understand why: pure jealousy.

_"Nothing's changed between us, Chief, unless you no longer trust me?"_

Garrison's words should have made it clear to Chief that Jaenicke was not about to replace him... Only maybe he couldn't chose between them and was expecting Chief to share him with the German.

After all, _"Some things don't change."_

Oh Hell.

So Chief had messed up Jaenicke's good looks. As if that would matter to Garrison. Though Jaenicke was endowed with a rather solemn charm, he wasn't outstandingly handsome.

Chief was. Better looking than Garrison, loathe though Actor was to admit it. Not as beautiful a body, though...

The sudden vision of that body entwined with Chief's twisted his guts even tighter. The more he tried to push it from him, the more graphic it became.

This was wrong. Totally, absolutely, completely.

Was it Chief Garrison had been dreaming of that night back in his office at their old HQ?

Actor felt sick at the thought that Garrison might, even asleep and drunk, have mistaken him for Chief... or Jaenicke.

Damn them both to the innermost circle of Hell.

I won't let them destroy him.

If Chief had succeeded in killing Jaenicke, they would both have been out of the way.

And destroyed Garrison just as surely.

There must be a way out, there has to be.

Maybe I'm imagining the whole thing.

I didn't imagine the look on Chief's face... and Jaenicke didn't imagine that knife... wasn't imagining Garrison's distress over both of them.

How can he be so blind?

Like all Actor's his questions, that one remained unanswered through the long night.

 

Next morning he felt totally wrung out, yet itchy, irritable and somehow unclean. The last thing he needed or wanted was to be summoned to Garrison's 'office', though at least he didn't have to face him alone: Casino and Goniff were already waiting.

So where the hell was Chief?

He didn't dare ask, though, wasn't sure he could even speak Chief's name without a curse.

Garrison seemed untroubled as he hitched himself on the edge of the Georgian desk, so Actor feared for its slender legs, folded his arms and eyed them to gather their attention. "OSS just reported that the cell in Lindenbronn was compromised," he said. "Captain Machar's team has met up with Frazini, and they've tracked down this Franz Müller. We may be heading out there on pretty short notice, so stay put, okay?"

As Actor tried to cope with his dismay, Casino and Goniff looked at each other and elected Goniff to speak. "What about Chiefy, Warden?"

"Chief will stay behind," Garrison said. "Colonel Yates doesn't want him on a mission with _Hauptmann_ Jaenicke."

This time the look Casino and Goniff exchanged was one of alarm, and Casino the one elected to voice it. "Wait a minute, Warden. Let me get this straight: Chief isn't coming on the mission but the Kraut is?"

"Both Krauts," Garrison confirmed. "You have a problem with that, Casino?"

"Sure I got a problem with it! Chief's part of the team, Warden. You said you didn't want to split the team."

"I don't, Casino. If it was my decision, Chief would be with us, but it isn't, and that's that."

"An' you trust these Krauts?"

"I trust Werner Jaenicke," Garrison said, "just as I trust you, Casino, and Goniff and Actor and Chief."

"Well I don't!"

"It's not your decision, either."

"Oh for Christ's sake." Casino was on his feet, and so was Goniff, reaching for his arm to restrain him. Casino shook him off, glaring at Garrison, who hadn't so much as blinked: "I thought it was just yourself you were tryin' to get killed—"

"You've worked without Chief, and with Germans, before."

"Oh what's the fuckin' use—" Casino strode over to the window and hit the wall beside it with his fist.

Amazingly, that provoked a smile from Garrison. "You can always come and try for me, Casino."

"I'd as soon wrestle a grizzly bear. Besides, you ain't up to it."

Garrison really was grinning now. "And you won't even try for a sick grizzly? Where's your fighting spirit?" Then, as Casino swung on him, "Just remember I'm no longer sick." He hadn't moved, was still sitting with his arms folded, apparently totally relaxed, but all of them had seen him explode into action from that pose – and the grin suggested supreme self confidence.

It gave Casino pause. "Well," he said, after a moment, "if you're really sure you're up to this..."

"I'm sure."

"We did pretty well in Lisbon without the Indian," Casino said slowly.

"What'd'y'mean, pretty well?" Goniff demanded, affronted. "I thought I was wonderful, myself. Whaddya you think, Warden?"

"You did fine," Garrison said. "You always do when it matters."

Goniff preened. "Told ya. Hey, Warden, what's happened to Chiefy's switchblades now he's under house arrest? I've always fancied outlining some bird in knives..." He drew an hourglass shape in the air with both hands.

"Maybe later, Goniff. Just don't leave the grounds for now."

"Aw Warden..."

"You'll be on the road soon enough, believe me."

"In the air, probably," Casino muttered. "Com'on, let's get some coffee."

As Goniff and Casino made their way out, Actor hesitated. Garrison had effectively blocked any protests he might have made about his state of health, effectively blocked any line of protest, in fact.

"Well?" Garrison was watching his face. "What's _your_ beef? I didn't think you were a member of Chief's fan club."

"Are you sure—" Actor paused. How did you tell the man you admired most in the world that you thought he'd lost not just his edge but his sureness of judgement? "Are you sure you're the right man for this job, Lieutenant?"

Garrison had plainly not expected that particular question. He shrugged: "That's for Colonel Yates to decide, not me."

"If you have doubts, the Colonel will respect them."

"You seem to be the one with the doubts," Garrison pointed out. "And if you won't tell me what they are we might as well stop discussing it."

"All right, I'll tell you my doubts in one word: Jaenicke."

"What about him?"

"You're too close to him," Actor warned. "You're letting your feelings for him blind you, the way you do with Chief. I don't trust him, Warden."

He should have anticipated the next question: "Why not?"

And he could hardly tell the truth. "I don't know why not..."

"Oh, for Christ's sake!" Garrison was exasperated. "I expected that from Chief but not from you."

So Chief had expressed his feelings to Garrison – and Garrison had apparently rejected them. Actor didn't know whether to be pleased or sorry. He said, "Chief had his own reasons, no doubt—"

"Chief doesn't operate by reason."

"Oh, and you do, eh?" It was out before Actor had considered the dangers. What in God's name was happening to his self control?

"What's that supposed to mean?" 

Actor shrugged.

"I'm waiting for an answer, Actor."

He'd had time to find a misdirecting truth. "Is it reason that makes you so sure Chief didn't try to kill Jaenicke? All the evidence says he's the logical – indeed the only – suspect."

"Is he? I suppose it hasn't occurred to you that you could be as suspect as Chief?"

Actor's jaw dropped. "I was with you—"

"You'd arranged a damn good alibi, but Mom and I didn't see you for at least two hours. Plenty of time for you to get back here."

The very accusation was a horrible betrayal, evidence that Garrison was willing to throw him to the wolves to protect Chief. "Why should I want to kill Jaenicke?"

"Why should Chief want to?" Garrison countered, with a half-smile. "You—"

"You know damn well why!" Actor shouted, goaded beyond endurance. "The same reason he threatened him, because he can see just as well as I can what your relationship was."

Garrison looked startled. "You both knew Werner was my friend. I thought that's why you volunteered to—"

"Neither of us imagined you were _that_ close to hi—" Actor suddenly realised the hole he had dug for himself. There was that dreadful stubborn set to Garrison's mouth – the corners turned down and the lips almost invisible – that he knew only too well.

"And what exactly do you mean by that?" the Lieutenant demanded.

Actor tried his widest smile. "Nothing."

"Oh, you meant something all right. I want to know what."

"For God's sake, Warden, let it alone."

"I wish I could," Garrison said. "But you're apparently accusing me of being so close to Werner that—" He stopped dead. "My God, so that's it. You think I'm stupid enough to start a homosexual affair with an enemy officer!"

"No, of course not," Actor said, feeling surprising relief that it was out in the open. Deliberately, he smiled. "I know you'd never start such an affair now, but when you were boys... I couldn't blame you for that, Warden. These things happen. In Italy—"

"Berlin was hardly Italy. Do you know what the Nazis do to queers?"

Actor grimaced. "Unfortunately, yes."

"So what in God's name gave you such a crazy idea?" Strangely, Garrison wasn't boiling mad, but curious, almost amused. In fact, he seemed to have taken the accusation remarkably well.

Did that mean he'd been expecting it?

Actor shook his head, unable to articulate purely emotional certainties. "You got very close to him very quickly. And Chief—"

"What's Chief got to do with anyt—?" Garrison stopped dead, blood beginning to rise into his face. Not for the first time, Actor prayed vainly that he hadn't jumped to the right conclusion. "You said my feelings for Chief blinded me..." he said slowly, then, with mounting fury: "What sort of 'feelings', Actor? What sort of perverted imagination do you have to think I'm— I thought you knew me. God help me, I even thought you were my friend. Then you accuse me of screwing every man within—" 

"No! No, that is not what I am saying." 

"Isn't it? Well get this through your head: I am not having an affair with Chief. I have never had and am not having an affair with Jaenicke. If you can't accept that, you're out of the team, Actor."

"I accept it," Actor said, wishing he wasn't so aware of how good Garrison was at lying that one percent of the time.

Garrison shook his head. "Too easy, con man. It'll take more than that to convince me. For the time being you can cool your heels here, with Chief—"

Actor's heart, already in his boots, sank so far into the floor that it might remain buried there forever. For the second time in his life, he was losing everything that mattered. He wanted to grab Garrison and shake him, beat him with his fists until he saw sense, hug him so tightly that he couldn't move, couldn't get himself killed. "Warden—"

"That's enough!" Garrison made a sharp cutting gesture with one hand, almost as angry as his tone.

It wasn't half enough. Actor would risk far more than his anger to save him from himself – or allow someone else to do it. "I know you won't take me with you now, but please, please take Chief. You need someone to keep you alive. I beg you... on my knees if I have to... "

Garrison was applauding ironically before he had got halfway through his impassioned speech. "Very melodramatic, Actor, but overacting doesn't win you any Oscars – and certainly doesn't change my mind."

Actor had to fight to stop himself lashing out with his fists. "You bastard!"

"Now that has the virtue of honesty, at least."

"How the hell are you going to explain leaving me behind to Colonel Yates?" Actor asked, on a last, desperate throw.

Garrison's expression was grim. "I told you, you're just as much a suspect as Chief."

Actor straightened his back and his face, unwilling to show just how much he was hurting – how deeply Garrison could wound him. "Am I also under house arrest?" he asked formally.

"No. I think it better if you don't see too much of Chief for the present. He wouldn't appreciate your flights of fancy either. Dismissed."

"Yes, sir," Actor said, for only the second time in his life, and with a great deal more venom than the first. At least it gave him an excuse to get out of the room before he strangled Garrison – or burst into tears.

He only just made it.

 

**Chapter 7**

 

As he heard the outside door slam, Garrison dropped into his chair before his legs gave way. He was shaking. Actor was so goddamn acute. Thank God he'd got it completely wrong this time.

But if he did find out the truth... 

Garrison dropped his head into trembling hands. 

Oh Christ, what a mess.

Deliberately, he steadied his breathing, willing his heart to slow. Whatever his personal turmoil, he had a mission to complete. He could not afford to let his feelings affect that.

Easier said than done.

Over the last few months it had become more and more difficult to retreat into the comforting certainties of duty and military routine. Actor, part of the problem, had become his solution.

Now that support had been kicked away, when he had least expected it. And, in his anger and disappointment, he'd defended himself too well. The look on Actor's face before it went blank had—

He'll be all right when he calms down, Garrison told himself, when he's had time to realise I wouldn't lie to him about this.

But maybe Actor had a point about Chief. Garrison had tried not to encourage the Indian's emotional dependence on him, but it was a fine line behind that and the support Chief needed so desperately.

Chief will do anything for me. Whatever he thinks I want. That includes killing my enemies – and maybe it would include going to bed with me. If I wanted to go to bed with him.

 

Out on the cliffs, the sea winds dried the tears on Actor's face but not in his heart.

He was beginning to realise exactly what he had done. It wasn't just that he'd lost Garrison's trust and friendship in a few ill-considered words, but that the mission against von Staaden was going ahead without either him or Chief.

He'd doubled, perhaps tripled, the odds on Garrison getting killed.

I thought he was free of despair, of that damn death-wish, that he'd got it all into perspective. He said he had. Maybe he was conning me, but if so he conned Emma too...

I've got to get back on the mission, or get Chief back on it, or both.

Try and find out who actually did try to kill Jaenicke? If it wasn't Chief, and he still wasn't convinced of that, there simply wasn't time, and he had nowhere to start. He couldn't even talk to Chief, daren't give Garrison the excuse to take him off the team for good.

If there was still a team after this mission.

If it still had a leader.

Whatever he says, he's not fit.

If Jaenicke knew that, maybe he'd be willing to help me persuade him to stay here. Except I don't trust Jaenicke, even if he does know the Warden better than I do – and that was a bitter pill to swallow – if either of us knows him at all.

Well, there isn't any—

Wait, wait, and wait.

Emma. Emma had known Garrison for more than twenty years, had all a mother's insights into what made him tick. Maybe she knew some way of persuading him to see sense.

To help me regain his trust?

Might as well wish for the Moon – but I'll settle for keeping him alive. And so, I suspect, will Emma.

 

His phone call caught Emma just as she was about to leave, but his need must have been obvious, for she agreed to leave her engagement early and meet him at eleven thirty, at the same cafe they had used before.

He had coffee waiting for her when she arrived, at the same table, but she ignored it. "What's wrong now, _Signore_...?" she began, then added, distracted by her own words, "Is Tesauro really your name?"

Actor nodded. "Yes. Alessandro Tesauro."

"After what Craig said I don't know whether to believe you or not."

"Well, he's very nearly as good at lying as I am." Perhaps even better.

"I'm beginning to realise that," Emma said thoughtfully. "He managed to keep a secret of the fact that his Uncle Andrew taught him to fly from before he was ten until yesterday. I daren't tell James. He'll throw a fit."

Actor chucked. "One of the Lieutenant's favourite phrases is, 'why walk when we can fly?'"

Emma rolled her eyes. " _That's_ Andrew. You know, Alessandro... Alessandro?... until that moment, I'd've sworn Craig didn't know how to lie to me. It's shaken... not my love for him or my faith in him, but my belief that I understand him."

"I've always known how good a liar he could be," Actor said. "It's part of our day to day business. But I also thought I could tell when he was lying. Now I find I can't. I need you to help me."

"Two days ago I would have said it was easy. Now... I'm sorry, Alessandro. I don't know how."

"Emma, you have to help. He's about to make a dreadful mistake."

"Then stop him," Emma said decisively. "He trusts you."

"Not any more."

"You don't switch trust on and off like a lightbulb," Emma said firmly. "And friends are most valuable when they tell you the truth. Craig's strong enough to cope with that. And he thinks the world of you: he told me so."

"I said something unforgivable. And stupid. And worse, true... maybe."

"Don't you know when you're lying, either?" Emma's smile was gentle. "Don't look so worried. I'm sure Craig will forgive you."

Actor shook his head.

"He has to. He needs you. And he forgave Richard, in the end. I'm glad about that," Emma added. "I liked Richard." 

"Forgave Richard?" Actor repeated, surprised. He'd gained the impression from Garrison that nothing had ever disturbed his friendship with Ward.

"You're not the only close friend to get into Craig's bad books, though I still don't know what exactly happened. All I can tell you is that Richard invited Craig to be Best Man at his wedding – but Craig walked out and came home."

"What? But that's—" Not what he implied to me.

"Not like him at all," Emma said, "That dreadful sense of duty he gets from James... I've no idea why. James was determined to find out and Craig wouldn't tell him and there was the usual fight. Craig slammed out and vanished for two days. Meanwhile, Richard phoned. He wouldn't say what happened either except that it wasn't Craig's fault and to get him to call back. Which he wouldn't. It wasn't a good atmosphere to run up to Kenneth's nineteenth birthday – and the news from Europe was bad as well, which affected both James and Craig.

"Then Peggy called me. Do you know about Peggy?"

Actor shook his head, though the name came floating back from that dreadful letter which had come so close to destroying Garrison.

_You broke Peggy's heart..._

"Peggy was Craig's sweetheart. She's a distant relative of mine, which is how they met. She's a lovely girl, very pretty, gentle and kind; and her father's in the Navy. She knows what it's like to be a service wife."

"Very suitable," Actor said dryly.

"You disapprove?"

Yes, though why... "I don't know the girl." But she seems too tame for the Warden.

"Maybe it would never have come to anything, but I did approve, and so did James. Peggy thought Craig was wonderful – still thinks so. Maybe he wasn't wildly in love with her, but that's not always – well, she'd've made him a good wife. I thought he'd grow to love her..."

"But?" Actor prompted, when it seemed she wasn't going to go on.

"He'd been to see her, and apparently told her that everything between them was over. She didn't want to come to Kenneth's party but I persuaded her that Craig had been upset, didn't really mean what he said. He seemed back to normal and I really thought... Only it didn't work out like that.

"Craig behaved unspeakably. I'd also invited Jenny Fitzroy because I knew Kenneth wanted desperately to meet her, and Craig, who knew that too, flirted outrageously with her. Admittedly, she started it, but he has no idea how devastating he can be."

You can say that again.

"Peggy went home halfway through the evening in tears. Kenny sulked so hard I wanted to hit him. Jenny was smirking. James, of course, blamed Craig – with some justification, for once – which resulted in another row, and Craig walked out again and went straight back to the Point."

"But Jenny eventually married Kenneth."

"Of course Craig dropped her like a hot potato once he'd used her to get rid of Peggy. Kenny thought he was getting one over on his brother, and Jenny thought she was making Craig jealous – which she wasn't – and I really wish I'd had the courage to stop that wedding, but Kenny was joining the Marines and... Oh, it's all far too complicated. You can't live your children's lives for them. I think Kenny was happy. I'm not sure about Craig."

"A good deal happier than if he'd married Jenny, from what I know of her," Actor said grimly.

"Maybe, but he needs _someone._ Since he broke with Peggy... Well, unless you know someone he's serious about...?"

"No," Actor said, suppressing any remaining doubts about Chief.

"Then he needs you very much. His dearest friends are both dead."

Actor frowned. "Not something else he's been keeping from me? Ward I know about. Who's the other one?"

"A German boy he met before the war – his best friend as a child."

Actor's mind was suddenly racing. "Werner Jaenicke?"

"Yes. That's right. He's spoken to you about Werner?"

"Yes," Actor said carefully, "but he didn't say he was dead."

"I'm not sure he knows. Don't tell him, Alessandro. He's got enough to cope with Richie and Kenneth—"

"How do you know Werner's dead?" Actor interrupted.

"One of the few advantages of my position. Diplomats' wives talk to each other. Jutta got word to me through the Spanish Embassy in Berne. She knew I'd want to know. I was very fond of Werner."

"You're sure it was Werner and not Manfred?"

"Of course. Werner was a _Luftwaffe_ pilot, shot down in North Africa in '42. That couldn't've been Manfred: he's in the Army. He and Kenny were never as interested in planes as Werner and Craig."

Well, they'd got that bit right, at least.

"Alessandro, what's going on?" Emma asked gently.

Actor shook his head. "I'm not sure... but I think you've given me what I need."

Emma smiled. "To get Craig to forgive you?"

"To stop him getting himself killed." Actor rose to his feet, took Emma's hand, and bowed over it with a flourish. "Many thanks, dearest ally."

Emma held onto his hand for a moment. "Craig is lucky to have a friend like you. Look after yourself as well as him, Alessandro; he's lost too many people he loves."

 

The train was late, puffing asthmatically between the close packed stations, its cramped and dirty carriages surprisingly empty. Or perhaps it was not so surprising, with a large part of the male population of the United Kingdom engaged in warfare across the world.

Actor appropriated a corner seat in the tiny compartment, lit his pipe, and considered what he had learned. All sorts of questions were finding answers in his head. He had been totally wrong – and yet he had been right, too. Emma had revealed far more than she realised, far more than she understood herself.

I was a damn fool. I should know him better by now. However much he wanted Chief, he'd never take advantage of his position, never put his career at risk.

And Jaenicke? Well, if he had ever been his lover, he'd surely have seen through the false identity at once.

Which left the attempt on Jaenicke's life. Chief might kill Jaenicke on the spur of the moment, but he didn't have a motive for premeditated murder.

_"You're as much a suspect as Chief..."_

That is, not a suspect at all.

At least to Garrison, Actor reminded himself. Yates might have other opinions.

And Garrison was up to something. A lot of what he had said in that horrendous interview had been misdirection. Which was more than could be said for Actor's own contribution.

He hoped desperately that Emma was right about Garrison forgiving him. He'd forgiven Ward, but then Ward had had an advantage he'd never... no, 'enjoyed' was definitely the wrong word.

This time, he'd plan what he had to say more carefully.

 

Despite all that planning, Actor's heart was racing as he rapped on Garrison's office door, his palms sweating in the way they only did before the most dangerous of cons.

Maybe because there was no con involved.

"Come," Garrison's voice called. 

He was alone, seated at his desk. When he saw who had entered, relief and pleasure lit his face for a moment, followed by wariness as he no doubt recalled how they had parted.

All the same, Actor's spirit lifted. Maybe Emma had been right after all. Deliberately, he plastered his most reassuring smile over his features, then thought better of it and let the mask drop, hoping Garrison could read his uncertainties, to the desperate sincerity beneath. Without greeting or formality, he started in on the most important part of what he had come here to say: "I'm sorry. I behaved unforgivably."

"But you still want me to forgive you?" Though Garrison's expression had not changed, Actor knew that tone, all seriousness on the surface with a hint of banter beneath.

He drew a breath for the first time since entering the room. "I'm afraid so," he said.

"Given a sufficient bribe?"

Actor closed his eyes for a moment in sheer relief and allowed himself the smile. "You never actually delivered."

Garrison grinned. "Nor have you – yet."

"Later," Actor said, recalling his other purpose. "There's something more urgent. Are Jaenicke and Gottlieb still here?"

"No. The Colonel thought they'd be safer at HQ with you and Chief here."

Actor nodded, refusing to rise to the bait. Instead, he said, "There are some things I have to tell you."

"A full confession?" There was no doubt now that Garrison was teasing him, felt enough confidence to tease him.

"Do you have a couple of years?"

"Afraid not. Colonel Yates is expecting me in his office at four."

"Good. He needs to know too. He has to abort this mission, Lieutenant."

"Christ, not again!" Garrison was exasperated. "Actor, this can—" 

"Dammit, listen to me: whoever that man pretending to be your old friend is, he's not Werner Jaenicke."

Garrison shoved his chair back and stretched out his legs. "Yes. I know. He's Werner's brother, Manfred."

It was the only reply that could have set Actor back on his heels. "What? How the Hell do you know that?"

"More to the point, how did you?"

"Your mother," Actor said. "She heard on some sort of diplomatic wives' grapevine that Werner had bought it in North Africa."

"Damn," Garrison said. "I'd hoped that wasn't the reason they'd used Manfred, though I suppose I always knew that if Werner had been available, they'd've sent him."

Actor had, by now, recovered his poise. "So how did you know?"

"Well, he was plainly upset about Kenneth though Werner had hardly noticed him, and he just seemed too young, even if he said all the right things. It was your story, though, Actor, that convinced me there was something to look into. Werner would never have been able to ride co-pilot to Ted Archer in an aircraft and not interfere. I have to sit on my hands myself, and I'm nowhere near Werner's class. So I had a few words with Ted and he confirmed that Jaenicke had been as meek as a lamb through the dogfight with the Mustang – hadn't said one word, in fact."

"You mean you suspected he was a ringer on that first night? And confirmed it the next day? What the Hell have you been playing at, Warden?"

"Bluff," Garrison said. "The con man's stock in trade, remember? If Manfred wasn't telling the truth, Gottlieb probably wasn't, either. But you can learn a lot from lies, if you know they're lies."

Actor began to pace. "If they were lying, then they must have been baiting a trap."

Garrison spread his hands. "It's the only conclusion. They baited one trap, and you, Chief, Ted and the Colonel walked into it – but they didn't spring it. And they're still dangling the bait."

Actor's eyes widened. He rounded on Garrison. "For you. That bait is designed for you?"

"You might at least try not to sound so astonished." Then Garrison's accusation melted into a grin. "I took a long time to convince, myself, but the Colonel agrees. It's the only answer that makes sense."

"So why in God's name are you putting your head on the block?"

"Because there's a chance the bait might be genuine. If we've really been enough of an annoyance to attract von Staaden, maybe he'll want to be in at the kill."

"And you were going to walk into this trap with just Casino and Goniff?"

"And Simon's team and Frazini's partisans."

_"Warden!"_

"No, of course not. You and Chief are my holdout cards. I was going to explain this morning, but you went off half-cocked and I decided to let you cool your heels for a while—"

"Does Chief know?"

"Yes. As you would have if you'd not misinterpreted the situation completely. I hope you've got it through your head now that Chief is not my lover."

"Oh, I believe you, about both him and Werner. I couldn't see what was under my nose all the time: it was Richard Ward who was your lover, wasn't it?"

"Oh, for God's sake!" Garrison exploded. "What's got into you? This is becoming an obsession."

"I'd still like an answer," Actor said steadily.

Garrison shook his head, as if in mockery of Actor's folly. "Even if it were true – and if it was I'd hardly be likely to admit it – what earthly business is it of yours, Actor? Are you scared that – as you think you're so fuckin' irresistible – that I'll try to seduce you? Or is it that—" He bit off the angry words, and said, instead, "Actor, _forget it._ "

That unspoken corollary question hung like Damocles's sword over Actor's head.

_Or is it that you're scared I won't?_

The obvious response was to say "Sorry" and never mention any of this again. It was also impossible.

"Were you in love with Ward?" he asked instead.

"I do not believe this—" Garrison started to turn as if to leave but Actor grabbed his arms and held him immobile for the time it took to say:

"As God is my witness, I will do nothing to hurt you. I swear all I want to do is help. I... just need to know the truth. I..."

I'm being torn apart. I hate the thought of you going to bed with Ward or Chief or any man, but I'm fascinated by it too.

Garrison was looking at him with a strange expression he could not interpret, though he no longer seemed angry. "Actor, you already know far more truth about me than I've ever known about you."

It stunned Actor. "What?"

"I've never tried to pry into _your_ background. I figured that if you wanted me to know, you'd tell me." It was a reproach, and perhaps a just one.

"You could have asked," Actor said, feebly.

Garrison's voice grew harder. "And had you lie to me."

"No. Never to you."

There was a pause, while Garrison seemed to think about this.

"What is it you want to know?" Actor rushed on. "My name is Alessandro Tesauro. I'm thirty-four years old. I was born in a little town in Italy called Pontedorato that you'll never have heard of, and when I was eighteen I ran away to seek my fortune."

It did as he'd hoped, and made Garrison laugh. "And I always thought that had something more to do with irate fathers and shotguns – Actor?"

His face must have given him away.

Garrison's certainly betrayed his own disappointment. "That's how much your word is worth, is it?" he asked bitterly. "Broken between one breath and the next—"

"No! Lieutenant, that... was not a lie, just a joke. What happened... was not that. And the irate father was my own. There were no shotguns, just too many men to argue with..."

 

He could still remember the heat on his face, the scent of the roses sprawling on the sun-baked wall, the high voices of the eight year old twins, Giorgio and Bettina, as they tried to entice the wary six-month old kitten down from its refuge in the orange tree.

Even now, the shock lived with him – one moment a family at peace, the next his father's face, red with fury, glaring at him from only inches away, as huge hands grabbed him by the arms and slammed him back against the wall, and the adored voice, almost unintelligible in its fury, raged at his immorality and stupidity, while what seemed like the whole neighbourhood crowded into the courtyard garden, shouting and waving their fists.

It took some time for him to work out what his father was talking about, but eventually it dawned on him that he was being accused of 'despoiling' a young woman and – worse – getting her pregnant.

His thoughts flew to Rosa, who he had been courting assiduously for months, but he had never – and she would not have told if he had...

"It is not true!" he protested again and again. "I swear it is not. Who dares to say it is?"

"Gina herself told us what you did."

"Gina?!" He was stunned. "Gina Branconi?"

" _Gesu Cristo!_ Just how many virgins called 'Gina' have you raped, boy?"

"I haven't raped anyone. _Papà,_ you have to believe me. I haven't touched—"

"And her only just sixteen—"

"I don't even like her! I only talk to her because of Fabio," Alessandro finally managed to finish a sentence. "I did not do this thing, father. She is lying."

"Lying is she? When her brother, your dear friend Fabio, confirms it?"

"Fabio?" He just couldn't believe it. He and Fabio had been friends since they were toddlers, had stood by each other through everything life could throw at two over-adventurous boys. "But why would he—?"

"Did you really expect him to lie for you at the expense of his family? At least he has some honour left, while you—" He slammed Alessandro's head against the wall again so hard that the next words came thorough a haze of internal noise. "You're not going to talk your way out of this, boy. You are going to put this right—"

"What?"

"You're going to marry the girl right now, Alessandro. Father Angelo is preparing—"

"But I tell you I didn't—" His protests were lost as his father dragged him towards the door into the road. If it had been only his father, even though the man was nearly as tall as he was and much heavier, he might have managed to break free, but the streets were packed with angry people. He'd never realised before how many hated him; he was too tall, too handsome, too clever, and – most of all – too charming. All along they had said that he would turn out bad, and now they had their proof.

In the cool darkness of the church, with the candlelight gleaming on the gilding and the sweat on the priest's podgy face, and Gina standing smugly at his side, Alessandro finally started to think clearly.

Now he could begin to see something of Gina's purpose. His own family was the richest in town, and his father had been mayor three times. By claiming him as the father of her child – and he still wasn't sure there actually was a child – she would see the brat become his heir...

Small town stupidity. He'd never meant to stay here anyway.

On his way into the church, he'd caught a glimpse of a worried Fabio. His dear friend had a distinct right to be worried...

As had he. No miraculous escape route had opened for him. God had not answered his prayers, and nor did the Virgin or any of the saints he called on so assiduously.

His mother was calling on them too. He could hear her wailing, asking for the shame to be lifted...

Very well.

Alessandro straightened his back and said the minimum necessary to stop his father hitting him again. Maybe he married the girl – he didn't know and he didn't care – but he divorced his family with the same words.

 

It was almost dawn when Fabio came swaying down the street towards his parent's house but, though he had been waiting in the shadow of the arch over the neighbours' door for over an hour, Alessandro's temper had not cooled appreciably. Indeed, he did not think it would ever cool.

Now, as Fabio passed him, he reached out and dragged him into the shadow, a hand going over his mouth to keep him quiet.

"Wha—" Fabio was so shocked he almost dropped the bottle of brandy he was carrying.

"Shhh," Alessandro hissed. Then, because Fabio was no use to him half-choked, he let him go.

Fabio staggered, rubbing his lips. "Is that any way to greet your new brother-in-law?"

Alessandro gripped his shoulder, trying hard to resist the temptation to wipe the grin from his face. "My new enemy," he snarled. "You know I've never touched your damn sister, you bastard—"

"Hey, not even on your wedding night?"

"That bitch is no more my wife than you are!"

Fabio held up his hands placatingly. "Easy, Alessandro. It'll all work out for the best. Gina'll make you a great wife. And you and I are family now—"

"The child is not mine," Alessandro said. "You know that."

Fabio shrugged. "Does that matter?"

"Yes. It does. Just as a matter of interest, who is the father? Why didn't he marry her?"

"You could ask Gina."

"I have. She won't tell me. And, despite everything, I'm not going to hit a pregnant woman."

"Or a friend. Come on, relax, have a drink. Rosa wasn't good enough for you, you know, little slut—"

It was too much. Alessandro grabbed him and hit him a roundhouse blow that almost took his head from his shoulders...

 

"I beat him almost to a pulp before he told me," Actor finished. "I think he talked only because he thought I was going to kill him... and I might have, at that. The child was his. He'd been fucking his own sister and when she got pregnant... Well, I was the obvious fall guy. No doubt Fabio thought he could talk me into anything. But what really hurt was that my own family believed him and Gina rather than me."

"Hot tempers and family pride," Garrison said. "I know all about those. Your father regretted his actions later, right?"

Actor shrugged. "I've no idea. I left that night with nothing more than I had on my back, and I've never had any inclination to return, believe me. They had nothing I wanted to keep, not even a name.

Garrison reached out to touch the heavy gold ring that Actor wore on the little finger of his left hand. "Who was it said that families dig their claws into your heart even when you don't like them much?"

Actor sighed. "You're right, of course. It wasn't that easy. There were times, particularly in the first couple of years, when I was tempted to crawl back... but it wouldn't've worked out. As for the ring, yes, it's a family heirloom, which goes to the eldest son on his sixteenth birthday. There was no way I was going to allow Gina's brat to get his hands on it."

"Hmm. You could have pawned it, sold it, if only to be smelted. There must have been many occasions when you needed the money." 

Actor said nothing.

"It's been a long time, Actor. What about your brother and sister? You've never found out what they thought, now or later?"

"I couldn't go back. Legally, Gina is my wife, her child my son or daughter. No doubt she would sue me for arrears of maintenance, if she ever found out where I was."

"She wouldn't've been too happy to find out you were in Alcatraz," Garrison pointed out dryly.

"It's all any of them would have expected of me – and just one more reason why I couldn't go back."

"That's no longer a good reason," Garrison said. "You can return as a hero if you want. The war has changed everything." 

"The war, Hell. I told you you'd turned my life upside down, Lieutenant."

"Don't expect me to regret that." Garrison was grinning.

"I'm still trying to work out if I do. It was painful enough learning to trust again, never mind reminding me that there is such a thing as honour, even if I can't aspire to it any more."

"Oh, no false modesty, please," Garrison mocked, then added, very seriously, "I've seen you act with great honour—"

"If there's a payoff in it for me."

"Uhuh. Where was the payoff in delivering Dorfman back to Germany as you promised? Or protecting Sister Therese – though why you should believe I could think any less of her _whatever_ the pair of you were hiding—"

"That's the payoff," Actor said. "Your respect."

"But that's the payoff for everyone: the respect of others, and self-respect most of all. I think you have enough of that to risk being rejected again. You know the things you've done over the past year, even if they don't, and the high regard in which you're held—" He was interrupted by the clock on the mantelshelf striking three. "Good Lord, is that the time? I've got to go. I'll—"

He was reaching for his hat as Actor blocked his path. "Not this time. You don't go until you answer my question about you and Ward."

"I don't think you really want to know."

"You're right – but I need to." 

"Why?" Garrison shot back. "What's driving you, Actor? What's so important that you're willing to rake over everything you've spent nearly twenty years forgetting, to risk all the trust you've earned from me, just to know if I'd ever had sex with someone you already know is dead?"

He hadn't expected that, wasn't sure of the real answer himself – and even what he could give was dangerous. "Because... I cannot... I cannot bear the thought of another man touching you... like that."

He expected shock, perhaps even revulsion. Instead, Garrison drew a deep breath and smiled. "At last," he said, stepped forward, and found Actor's mouth with his.

The kiss grew longer and when the world greyed as much from lack of air as desire, Actor hardly noticed. There was so much pleasure to be had in the taste of Garrison's mouth, the press of lips and tongue, and the muscular body against his. He slid his hands down to cup that wonderfully tight ass, and Garrison lifted slightly to press their groins together.

The heat branded him clear through to his soul.

And then, though with reluctance, Garrison pushed him away. "I'm sorry, but I really do have to go – and you need time to think about this."

Actor was shaking, didn't know what to say. "Lieutenant... Craig..."

Garrison put his fingers over Actor's lips. "Think, Alessandro. All the risks. Your motives, and mine. Whether or not it's worth that much to you. If it is—" He moved his fingers, replaced them with his lips for a fleeting touch, avoided Actor's reflexive grab, retrieved his hat, and was gone.


	2. Home to Roost - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mission in Switzerland to retrieve the industrial diamonds ( Episode: _The War Diamonds_ ) has left Garrison seriously injured and the Gorillas stood down, though that does not guarantee their safety.
> 
> Meanwhile, German's top spy-catcher has obtained a lead on the team that has pulled off the series of astonishing intelligence coups across Europe over the last two years.
> 
> But the demands of friendship and family are about to catch up with both Garrison and Actor, in the midst of the most exacting mission of their lives.

**Chapter 8**

 

Garrison made his way from the car carefully, slit-masked flashlight picking out the rain bouncing from the edge of the steps just before he would have fallen over them. Being late at Yates's office had meant being late back at the Dower House, after a dangerous drive through unlit suburbs and country lanes that had slowed him even more. And tired him.

Mustn't let any of the team see that.

Not that his efforts seemed to make much difference to Actor's perceptions, at least.

The thought of Actor lifted his spirits and he bounced up the last few steps and in through the doors, returning the guard's salute without breaking step.

He still wasn't sure that forcing Actor to acknowledge his motives had been the right thing to do – certainly wasn't sure that kissing him had been the right thing to do.

But he'd looked so... confused. And he'd been so brave. And his mouth had tasted so—

Doing what was right seemed to blur into what he wanted too often recently. Perhaps it would be clearer in the morning, when he wasn't so tired.

As he pushed open the door to his bedroom, he realised that the light was on and that that someone was waiting for him.

His heart leaped in anticipation.

"Warden?" It was Chief's drawl. The Indian was curled in an armchair besides the fireplace.

Somehow, Garrison kept the disappointment from his face, smiled at Chief, threw his hat and jacket on a chair, sat down on the edge of the bed and started to unfasten his shoes. When he looked up, it was to meet Chief's black eyes.

"Is there a problem?" he asked them.

"Maybe. Actor left 'bout four. Didn't say where he was goin' or even if he was comin' back."

Oh Christ, was Garrison's first thought: then, don't panic.

"I told him to go and think about something," he told Chief, trying to sound unworried. "That's probably what he's doing."

"Somethin' sure was botherin' him."

I'll bet.

Garrison finished removing his shoes and socks and hitched himself up to sit cross-legged on the bed. "Well, I don't think we'll turn out the MPs until we're sure he's AWOL. Go get some sleep, Chief. I certainly intend to."

Though I doubt I'll be able to.

Chief looked as if he doubted it too. "Warden..." he said uncertainly. "You know if... you want somethin'... anythin'... from me, you only havta ask."

Damn. Chief had become far too good at reading him.

"I ask far too much of you already, Chief," he said.

"There's nothin' I—"

"I know," Garrison interrupted, before Chief could get in too deep for him to extract them both. "But I truly don't want anything you really don't want to give." 

Don't push it, Chief. Or I might be tempted into taking you up on it, and that wouldn't be good for either of us.

"'m not sure what I want," Chief admitted. "You?"

"I want," Garrison said, choosing his words carefully, "a better future for you than you've had a past. You to be happy."

"That's fer me. I asked what about you?"

"Me? I have most of what I want; family, friends, a career..." Maybe a lover. If so, that 'career' might be over with the war.

Please God.

"They hurt you," Chief said. He sounded puzzled.

"That's part of being alive. It's not the same sort of hurting you've had to suffer, believe me. That's another thing I want you to learn: how to cope with being hurt by people you care for."

"You'd never hurt me," Chief stated, as fact.

"I've tried not to, but sooner or later I will, if only accidentally. Nobody's perfect, Chief." 

Chief came to his feet with that lazy grace that always stirred Garrison against his will. Loping over to the bed, he stood over the seated man, smiling down at him. "Y'sure?"

Oh, damn it all, he didn't need this today.

Behind Chief, the door creaked stealthily open. Seeing the tall figure peering round its edge, Garrison's heart leaped in relief and joy. "Come in, Actor," he called out.

Chief whirled away, and Garrison saw his hand reach for the switchblade before he thought better of it.

"I need to talk to you," Actor said, with a glance of pure suspicion at Chief.

Garrison caught the Indian's eye and jerked his head towards the door. 

For the first time that he could easily remember, Chief hesitated in response to his silent order. "Y'sure y'know what you're doin'?"

Garrison nodded. "Sleep well, Chief."

With no real choice left to him, the Indian made his exit, giving Actor an equally suspicious look as he did so.

More fences Garrison was going to have to mend in the morning. Right now, though, Actor was more important. "You'd better bolt the door," he advised. "It seems to be my night for being disturbed. Unless, that is, you were planning a quick getaway." He waited for Actor's reaction, knowing it would give him some clue as to why he was here. It also, of course, made it clear that he hadn't been worried about being disturbed with Chief. Though perhaps he ought to have been.

I'll have to do something about Chief, and soon.

"You might be the one who needs the getaway," Actor said. "You've been pretty evasive so far." But he closed and bolted the door before seating himself in the same chair by the hearth that Chief had used.

Keeping his distance.

After a while he said, "Don't you want to know where I've been?"

"Do I need to know?"

You could almost hear the clash of steel.

Actor plainly heard it. He said, "You asked me to think about my motives, and yours, and the risks."

Garrison nodded.

"I've spent all my life chasing pleasure. If you'd've been a woman I'd've admitted what I was feeling weeks ago, seduced you and probably even managed to stay friends when the passion cooled. Only this is not that simple. Some things are more important than pleasure – like winning this war and... honour."

Damn and damn. This was an appalling time for Actor to rediscover morality.

And I pushed him into it.

"You have so much honour yourself," Actor was saying, "that you're willing to assume it for people who've forgotten what it means. And you don't consider the harm to yourself. So I did think about my motives, and the risks. And then I went out with every intention of getting drunk and getting laid and maybe walking out of your life forever." He paused with an air of interrogation, but Garrison knew better than to interrupt now.

"I couldn't do it," Actor went on, carefully not specifying what it was he could not do. "And I realised I still didn't have the full picture. Yes, I'd considered the risks, and my motives – but I hadn't considered yours. That's because I don't know what they are, Lieutenant, don't understand you."

"If you don't," Garrison said, "no-one does. What is it that's bothering you?"

The answer was not unexpected but unwelcome all the same. "Richard Ward."

Garrison raised eyes to heaven for guidance. "I thought I'd answered that one – indirectly, at least."

"You were in love with him," Actor said flatly.

 _"No."_ Garrison bit his lips. "No, I wasn't. But I don't... find it easy to talk about him." He took a deep breath. "I guess I'm going to have to tell you the whole story. I met Richard at West Point. We were on the football team, then became tennis partners. One day, after practice, we were alone in the showers, horsing around, the way kids do and... it just happened."

 

He could still remember the shock of it, Ward's hand closing hard on his ass, both slick with water and soap. Its warmth had bored through his body straight into his groin. He'd never erected so fast in his life – and Ward was right with him, hot and hard against his thigh.

Then they both were heaving against each other, desperately seeking release, an entry that was impossible.

They both came fast, too, jerking and panting against each other, but too wrapped in their own individual world of orgasm to take much notice of the other – until sanity returned.

Aghast, Garrison turned away, staring at the tiles and hoping he could disappear through them. Finally, Ward's fingers lifted his chin. "Nothing happened tonight," he said.

Garrison nodded, still unable to speak. Everything had changed in the last few minutes, most of all his vision of himself. 

Oddly, the thought that went through his head was: Father's gonna kill me for this.

Ward must have read his doubts on his face. "It's okay, Craig," he said, putting both hands on Garrison's shoulders and squeezing in reassurance. "One time – doesn't make you a faggot. No women for a while, everyone looks good."

Trying to convince himself, too, Garrison guessed. But he'd called him 'Craig', a new intimacy.

"You can cope with this?" Real concern in the quiet question.

Garrison took a deep breath. "Sure."

Ward smiled in relief. "Sure you can. It's over now. Chalk it up to experience – and we'd better finish up if we don't want to miss mess."

 

Only it hadn't been over.

"Despite what we said, we didn't just let it happen again, we made it happen. We knew it was wrong, and stupid, but I suppose that made it even more exciting. That went on for about six months then Richie – Ward – graduated and got his first posting. I didn't see him again until he invited me to be best man at his wedding. By that time I'd convinced myself that I'd grown out of him – men – even had a sort of understanding with this girl I'd known for years.

"I thought Richie's fiancée was great. Then, what I though was going to be a raucous stag night turned into a quiet dinner for two...

 

Garrison watched Ward drive with a sad pleasure in the competency of the strong hands on the wheel, reminding him of the way they used to arouse him with equal competence. He supposed Ward was mildly drunk, the same way he was, but you wouldn't have known it.

And he was the one who was supposed to get Ward sober to the altar. Way it looked right now, Ward'd be the one organising _him._

He sighed and relaxed back into the car seat, closing his eyes against the dazzle of street lamps as they streamed past, a fairground-ride effect that clashed horribly with that of all the wine he'd drunk.

It had been a good evening. Unexpected, but good. He had never seen Ward so full of good-humour and charm. Being engaged plainly agreed with him. 

Fingers brushed against Garrison's cheek, making him jump. "Hey, sleepyhead," Ward's voice said, full of amusement and affection. "Com'on, unless you want to sleep in the car."

To his surprise, Garrison found the car was now neatly parked outside Ward's apartment. The cool New England night air woke him up a little, but not enough to want to do more than listen to Ward's chatter. It was surprising, Garrison thought, how alcohol changed people. Ward normally only chattered when he was nervous. Garrison hadn't expected that to strike until they were actually on their way to the church.

"Craig!"

Garrison woke up again to find Ward had unlocked the door and was waiting for him to come inside. "Sorry," he said, as he entered. "Daydreaming, I guess."

"I can guess what about," Ward said, "or rather, I hope I can." He was pulling off his jacket and tie as he spoke. "Can you get undressed by yourself, or are you going to need help with that, too?"

Garrison could feel heat beginning to rise into his face, remembering times when he hadn't so much needed help as enjoyed having it.

Ward was smiling. "I can still make you blush, then?"

"Don't be—"

"Come here." Ward's hands deftly unknotted his tie, then started on the buttons of his shirt, fingers sliding under the cotton to caress throat and nipples just as soon as there was a large enough gap.

His touch burned as agonisingly as it had that first afternoon.

"Richie," Garrison said uncertainly, trying to draw away.

"Hush, baby. Oh God, Craig, but you're gorgeous..." Ward's words were lost as he took Garrison's mouth with his own, awakening all the suppressed passion with skill and bone-deep knowledge.

 

Garrison watched Actor's face, trying to gauge the other man's reaction. Anger, certainly, perhaps revulsion.

_I cannot bear the thought of another man touching you... like that._

I can't turn back the clock, Alessandro. God knows, I wish I could, but what happened, happened. I guess you'd've found out sooner or later. Better discover if you can't cope with it now.

 

When Garrison woke he found himself alone in a strange bed, but his aching body reminded him all too clearly of what they – he – had done. On the day before Richie's wedding. In what would be Richie's and Sara's bed.

God, what a bastard I am to have forgotten that, to have taken advantage of the fact we were both drunk to—

Hold it. Richie didn't seem very drunk. Didn't perform as if he was drunk, either. He was the one who arranged for us to be alone together, fed me far more wine than I'm used to—

Stop making fucking excuses. Can't blame him for wanting a farewell dinner.

Sure didn't seem like a farewell. Doesn't feel like one.

The logic was inexorable. Ward had known exactly what he wanted, had got him drunk, made the first move, and even had a tube of lubricant to hand—

He planned it all, Garrison thought in shock. Not just taking me to bed but... fucking... buggering me...

That doesn't excuse the fact that last night I wanted it. For the first time. Wanted to be needed, _possessed..._

Wanted to prove Richie was mine, not Sara's? Was that what he was trying to find out too, whether he wanted me more than her? Oh Christ, surely not? If so, why didn't he call me over weeks ago, not leave it until the day before the wedding...

What the Hell are we going to do?

"Coffee and toast," Ward's voice said, as he shouldered open the bedroom door, "and eggs if you can face them."

All Garrison's confusion melted into affection and the flicking tail-end of lust at the sight of Ward, hair ruffled, clad in an – unbelted – old bathrobe, and balancing a piled-up tray in careful hands.

"Richie, what're we gonna do?" he blurted.

Ward set the tray down on the bedside table and surveyed Garrison with plain approval. "Unfortunately, nothing more than eat breakfast and get dressed. We'll have to be quick, too. We've only got a couple of hours, and it's forty minutes drive to the church. You haven't got a hangover, have you?" he asked with concern. "Or lost the ring?"

Garrison couldn't believe his ears. "You're still going to marry Sara?"

"Well, I can hardly marry _you,_ " Ward pointed out, "much as I'd like to. Besides, I couldn't hurt her like that—"

"Dear God, what'd'you think this'll do to her?" Garrison made a vague gesture at the room, the state of the bed, his own nakedness and Ward's dishabille.

"She'll never know unless you tell her," Ward said. Then, seeing Garrison's distress, he sat down on the edge of the bed and took the other man's hands in his. "Don't look like that, Craig, please. There's no need to be jealous of Sara. What I feel for her and what I feel for you are—"

Garrison shoved him aside and swung to his feet, gasping with the unexpected pain.

Ward reached out to him, saying, "Christ, did I hurt you that much? Here, lie down again and let me—"

"Don't touch me," Garrison snarled, "or I'll break your fuckin' neck." He could do it, he knew. He had grown more powerful than Ward and had, his instructors said, a natural talent for unarmed combat.

Ward plainly recognised that. He stood back and let Garrison find his clothes. Only when the other man started re-packing his suitcase did he protest. "Craig, this is stupid. Where am I going to find another Best Man at this hour of the day, huh?" He tried a winning smile to go with the words.

"I don't fucking care!" Garrison whirled to face him. "D'you understand so little about me that you believed I'd just stand there and listen to you lie? And lie on your behalf to Sara, your parents, _her_ parents—?"

"Easy, Craig. Just calm down and think. This is the only way we can go on having each other without suspicion."

Garrison snapped the locks on the case shut. "You don't have to worry about that any more."

For the first time, Ward began to look worried. "Craig, sweetheart—"

"Your choice, Lieutenant Ward," Garrison said. "You made it, you live with it. I'm sure you'll find another man to warm your bed when you tire of Sara, but it won't be me."

Ward's expression was calm, measuring. "Okay. That's your choice. I'll make your excuses. But when you finally get a hold on that temper, call me."

"Go to Hell," Garrison said, and left.

 

"I ran, I admit, went home and broke things off with Peggy because I'd realised I didn't want her – not the way I did Ward. That, and running out on Richie's wedding, caused even more family trouble."

"And you've lived as a celibate ever since."

Garrison shrugged.

Actor shook his head. "You're too strong willed for your own good."

"There are things you have to do without in the Army, the same as in jail."

"Like your lover – ex-lover." Actor said grimly. "Could you have kept to that resolve if you'd met him again before the day he died?"

"Actually, I did meet him again, just for a few hours in North Africa. We talked, nothing more. He said he loved me, loved his wife too, that they'd named their first child after me. He begged me to forgive him, said he'd settle for anything, even just keeping my friendship. Which was how things stood between us when he died. By then, it really was just friendship on my part. Perhaps on his, too. Maybe he'd learned what being in love really was like, just as I had..." He peered at Actor from under his lashes to see the effect of this.

"Chief?" Actor said in a tight, dry voice that made Garrison's guts ache in sympathy, but he wasn't ready to let him off the hook yet.

"Chief's life is difficult enough without getting involved with me," he stated. "Besides, what he needs is a very normal, very stable relationship to keep him steady. I wouldn't be good for him."

It was plain Actor wasn't interested in Chief. "And you?"

"Credit me with some sense. He's beautiful, he's bright and he makes me laugh, but he's also as possessive as Hell. I'm not sure I could cope if he started sticking knives in a stranger because I'd looked a little too long at his ass." Wickedly, he added, "Not that Chief himself hasn't got the most gorgeous ass I've ever seen."

Actor glared at him, but Garrison kept grinning until he relaxed and smiled back. Yes, Garrison thought. I'll need to keep you a little jealous... and it doesn't look like it'll be difficult. 

If we get past tonight.

Making an effort, Actor said, in a too-reasonable voice, "I suppose Chief is... attractive. I've always appreciated that men can be beautiful, but that was just aesthetic pleasure. I've never wanted to go to bed with one..." He faded out, but both of them could finish that sentence.

_Before now._

In fact, Garrison didn't believe it for a moment, though he suspected Actor did. There was too much danger to the conman's self-esteem in admitting to himself that he wanted other men. But Garrison had noted that the target of his anger after that long-ago betrayal had not been Gina, but Fabio. If was one of the things that had prompted him into direct action.

Careful.

"Was that why you tried to run?" he asked.

"Run?" Actor's face darkened. "You asked me to consider the risks..."

"And you decided the game wasn't worth the candle?" Garrison raised an eyebrow. "You said it yourself: if I'd've been a woman, you'd've taken whatever you wanted and then it'd be over and done with in a month or so, leaving friendship behind, if we were lucky. Did you realise that going into something with me wouldn't be just for a month or so, Actor? And that you mean too much for me to let you go with a pat on the shoulder and the suggestion we stay buddies? I'm talking commitment – and if you can't cope with that you can still walk out of this room. You have my word that the subject will never be mentioned again."

"How can I walk out," Actor cried, "when you're sitting there looking about six and so goddamn sexy..."

"If that's what you think," Garrison said, his heart beginning to pick up speed, "why the Hell are you still sitting over there?"

"Because I don't think my legs will hold me," Actor replied, his voice shaking. "And, God help me, because I wouldn't know what to do when I got there."

"Now that is a first," Garrison said, sliding off the bed and padding across the room to stand a foot or so away from Actor. "You didn't seem to have a problem this afternoon. Maybe I need to refresh your memory." He bent down to brush his lips fleetingly against Actor's. The other man sat motionless, eyes huge and very dark, the soft lamplight sheening the sweat on a face flushed with more than the hot night. "I like being kissed – and cuddled. You know how to do that, don't you? I want to be held, to feel your hands on me, to taste your mouth and your skin and touch the most intimate places of your body. That'll do for a start. And after that, well, I'm sure we can work—"

He broke off short as Actor grabbed him, yanked him down into his lap, and took his mouth in a devouring kiss that destroyed every remaining doubt. With overwhelming relief, Garrison let all control go, losing himself in shared passion.

Actor's mouth held all the joy he had dreamed it would – and more. He couldn't get enough of it. Couldn't get enough of the security of those strong arms about him – and the paradoxical thrill of danger they engendered. 

He'd seen Actor naked often enough, but never naked and aroused and the captive sex filling his cupped hand would be as impressive as he'd imagined it. His other hand moved to Actor's zipper to free it—

Warm fingers suddenly pushed down under his waistband, grasping the left cheek of his ass hard and possessively. He responded with a moan of pure pleasure, his body flexing under the stimulus, grinding his own erection down into Actor's lap, forcing a cry from the other man that held nothing of his normal languid sophistication. 

Desperate to consummate their passion, knowing he couldn't hold back for much longer, Garrison pulled Actor down onto the rug, happily letting himself be trapped under the taller man's body, arching his back as Actor's lips and tongue ran down his throat and into the hollow above his collar bones—

"Lieutenant Garrison! You all right in there, sir?" It was the Sergeant Major's voice, accompanied by an urgent knocking at the door.

As he opened his mouth to call back, Actor placed a hand over it, shaking his head. Though it was the last thing he wanted to do, Garrison caught his wrist and lifted the hand away by sheer muscle power.

"Just a minute!" he called. Then, looking up into Actor's angry – and desperate – dark eyes, he answered the other, far more important plea. "Sorry, sweetheart, but if I don't reply he'll have the door broken down—"

"Warden..."

"Later. Com'on, let me up – and stay out of sight."

Actor rolled away and sat up with the bulk of the armchair blocking the line of sight from the door. 

Carefully not looking at him, hoping that that would ease the agony in his groin, Garrison took several deep breaths, trying to steady himself enough to think and speak rationally, then climbed slowly and rather painfully to his feet, and made his way to the door. There was no reason for the Sergeant Major to question his dishevelled appearance, but he hoped to God his arousal wasn't as obvious as it felt.

He ran a hand through his hair in a vain attempt to neaten it, drew back the bolts and half-opened the door. "Yes, Sergeant Major?" he asked, noting that the other man had plainly been roused from sleep. Good. That meant he wasn't likely to be awake enough to observe anything untoward.

"Sorry, sir, but Colonel Yates is downstairs in your office."

"What? I only left him at HQ a couple of hours ago."

"Yessir. Apparently he chased you down. He's got another gentleman with him, sir." 

"Okay. Tell them I'll be five minutes – and get someone to make some coffee."

"Colonel Yates is raiding your whisky, sir. What Goniff and Casino have left of it."

Garrison had to grin. "I want the coffee, even if neither of them do – but you go back to bed, Sergeant Major."

The older man sniffed. "You need your sleep more than I do... begging your pardon, sir."

"Go and arrange the coffee."

As he went back to the bed to find his shoes, Actor said, from where he was still sitting on the floor. "You want me to come with you?"

"No. You're supposed to be under suspicion, remember?" Garrison paused to look down at him, still fighting the urge to join him on the rug. "When I said it was my night for being interrupted, I didn't anticipate this. Oh, go to bed, Actor. God knows what the Colonel wants and how long it's going to take. It's not worth waiting up for me."

"I could wait here," Actor said. "That would be worth it."

"And suppose you fell asleep and my orderly found you here?"

"All right," Actor said tiredly, getting to his feet. "You know where to find me if you want me." His voice was edged with insecurity in its double meaning.

"You bet I do," Garrison said. "Now you'd better go before you tempt me into being very late indeed for the Colonel's meeting."

 

When Garrison clattered down the stairs into the hallway he was outwardly all military again, but his thoughts were still with Actor; he'd put the other man through Hell today.

But Actor had come back, despite everything.

Have to make it up to him. Soon.

He paused in front of the door to his office, trying to force himself into the right frame of mind for an interview with his commander, decided it was impossible, took a deep breath and stepped through – to find Yates in company with the last person he either expected or wanted to see.

"Ah, there you are, Lieutenant," Yates said cheerfully. "Whisky?"

"As it's mine, perhaps I'd better," Garrison replied, closing the door carefully behind him.

"And we don't ask where you – or was it Casino? – got it."

"Not if you want to stay on the supply line," Garrison said, accepting the generously filled glass, grateful to the Colonel for easing the atmosphere.

"I wouldn't mind being on that myself," James Garrison said, with a half smile. "This is excellent."

Though the tone was far from hostile, Garrison was not willing to let down his guard. Settling himself into his favourite position hitched on the edge of the desk, he took a gulp of whisky and asked, "So what's this about?"

Yates inclined his head towards James Garrison, who said, "I was intrigued by being asked to identify young Werner Jaenicke, who was plainly not important enough to warrant the attention of either myself or what was equally plainly a specialised and most secret branch of Allied Intelligence." Then, in response to his son's raised eyebrows. "Oh, come now, Craig. An enemy officer in the custody of Americans in civilian clothes? Stricter security than there is around Eisenhower? Well, as I said, I was intrigued. I'd noticed, while I was waiting in Colonel Yates's office, that there was a map covering Bavaria and Switzerland on the wall.

"Three or four months ago there was an almighty row in Berlin. We were scared at the time it might indicate the Germans had got wind of OVERLORD, but this didn't seem to involve any of the military – or for that matter any of the major German spymasters. Instead, Hitler sacked both the Minister of Industrial Production and the local head of the Swiss spy network. He also called in Otto von Staaden, whose name I fancy you know quite well, to meet with him. Since the attempt on his life and the disappearance of Field Marshal Donner, Hitler's been jumpy. Von Staaden is one of the few people he trusts – and von Staaden happens to have his headquarters in Ausberg at present.

"The Swiss connection also seemed promising. I recalled some sort of incident on the Swiss/German border just before the fuss in Berlin. When I had my researchers check, it turned out to be a complaint by the Germans to the Swiss about being attacked on the Rhine near Basel, and a counter-complaint about a German incursion. OSS and SOE knew nothing, or so they said, but I have my own contacts in the Swiss government, and through them I learned that, among those German spies they'd been keeping track of was a man calling himself 'Frank Miller.' He vanished about the time of the same incident.

"One final piece of information linked both; a signal to Kesselring concerning the arrival of one Franz Müller – note, no rank, just a bland announcement of his arrival. Frank Miller – Franz Müller?" 

"Well, I guess that confirms it," Garrison said, to Yates. "This Müller character must be the man I knew as Wilder."

"And he knows you by sight." Yates had spotted the significant point at once. "He was probably in Lindenbronn watching us arrive."

"Yes. And they must be aware that he can't fool me, which means their plans don't include a meeting between us until it's too late. Are you going to send word to Simon and Frazini?"

"D'you think I should?"

Garrison thought about it. "For my money, no. Let's keep it all natural, let them think it's all going their way."

"That in itself might rouse their suspicions."

"You could be right. Though I've an idea about that."

Yates sighed, and looked at James Garrison, who had been spectating with interest. "He always has."

"He always did." 

Garrison forbore to comment as a knock at the door heralded the arrival of coffee. He used the pause to put his thoughts in order.

It wouldn't do to underestimate his father. You had to be very sneaky indeed to outwit him, and he didn't think Yates understood that yet.

So what was the Old Man after this time? Presumably, as he'd said, they'd piqued his curiosity – and beyond that point he wouldn't've been able to resist meddling. Now he'd have to satisfy that curiosity just enough to make it clear it wasn't his business, though first he'd better find out just how much damage had been done.

He gestured with his coffee cup towards his father. "How much have you told him?" he asked Yates.

"Little more than I'd guessed," his father said. "That you'd been offered von Staaden but suspected a trap – which presumably my news confirms."

Yates nodded. "Until now there was still a small chance that only Jaenicke was phoney. Now..."

"We know that Müller and Gottlieb and Christ knows how many others are involved in the plot," said Garrison, his eyes glinting. "I'll bet von Staaden's got some more surprises waiting in Italy. I'm looking forward to meeting him."

"You mean you're looking forward to crossing swords with him," Yates said resignedly.

Garrison grinned at him. "Permission to venture an opinion, sir?"

"Why not? You will anyway."

"You're just jealous it's not you packing the foils."

"I'm still not sure that it didn't ought to be."

"It's me he wants," Garrison pointed out.

"You're joking..." His father was plainly horrified. "You are joking?"

Yates cast a quelling look at Garrison, but the damage had been done. James Garrison rose to his feet so that he had the height advantage on his son. "What the _Hell_ have you done to attract the attention of von Staaden, Craig?"

"Now that," Garrison replied smugly, "really is 'need to know.'"

"He heads up a small, unorthodox and extremely successful special forces unit," said Yates. "I know it's difficult to believe, but they irritate the Germans even more than they irritate me. What I didn't understand was how von Staaden got to know about them – but it looks like it's through this Franz Müller. Who, I remind you, Lieutenant, came close to beating you in Switzerland." 

Garrison's grin was nasty. "I'm one fall ahead, though – and two wins the bout."

James Garrison was looking at his son with a strange expression composed in equal parts of exasperation and fear. "You were involved in the Basel incident? And now you're taking on the likes of von Staaden? Craig – oh, what's the use. Your mother never listened, either." He turned on his heel abruptly, and the door slammed shut in his wake.

Wincing inwardly, Garrison turned back to Yates. "Is that all, sir?"

Yates didn't answer directly. "Don't you think you ought to go after him?"

"We don't have anything left to say to each other."

"Craig—" Garrison's eyes widened in astonishment. The Colonel never used his first name. "Has it occurred to you," Yates continued, "to wonder why he found that information?"

Garrison stared at him.

"He's an important man – and smart. He didn't need to go through that stuff, let alone force his way into my office to draw my attention to it. Dammit, stop looking at me like an idiot! You're not that stupid. We gave him enough clues to figure out what sort of operation we ran, and since then he's been desperately doing all he can to come up with something to help us – to help you."

"And satisfy his own curiosity."

Yates muttered words that were all too unfortunately intelligible. "Okay," he sighed. "Have it your way. I'll see you in the morning then."

 

Actor turned over yet again, trying to find a more comfortable position on the old mattress. It still seemed odd not to hear one of the others snoring, or a snatch of whispered conversation. This room felt strange, and being on his own for the first time in over two years was stranger still.

It was not what was keeping him awake, though. That had more to do with the emotional upheavals of the day, and his newly acknowledged – and frustrated – desire for Craig Garrison.

Giving in to temptation, he drew a picture in his mind of the Lieutenant sitting on that bed, looking impossibly young, his wide mouth curved in a mischievous smile, lamplight gilding his changeling eyes.

He was so beautiful.

And ought to be untouchable.

But he wants me, even, maybe... He did say he'd fallen in love... Could he possibly have meant...?

Speculation drifted into daydream into dream – to be broken abruptly by the knowledge that he had been woken by a noise.

Mice?

Maybe, but...

Stealthily, he began to draw back the bedcovers.

"Alessandro?"

"Craig?" he answered. The name was still unfamiliar on his tongue, the question more to do with his uncertainty as to his right to use it than any doubts about the identity of that deep voice that had sent a shiver from the roots of his hair down to curl his toes.

"I thought... Alessandro, may I come into your bed?"

"Please," Actor replied, finishing the motion of drawing back the bedcovers. He could hear the small motions of Garrison undressing in the darkness and now began to distinguish his powerful shape only a couple of feet away. The shape moved closer. A hand touched the side of the bed, then his hip.

He didn't manage to contain his gasp at the bolt of desire that shot directly to his groin.

Then Garrison was in bed with him, weight dipping the mattress, pressing Actor down into it, entangling him in arms and legs and warmth, and kissing him with such intensity that he knew his heart would never come back to him, no matter how often he kissed Garrison in return.

Which would be as often as possible? Starting now.

"You've got pyjamas on," Garrison complained, as he broke the kiss. "It's summer."

"Warden, it's _England._ It never gets warm here."

"I'll keep you warm," Garrison said, his fingers already undoing buttons. "Unless..." He stilled. "I guess I'm taking a lot for granted, aren't I?" Suddenly, he sounded unsure.

And it hit Actor like a blow how inexperienced he really was. There had been Ward, maybe a few women... while he had lost count of the number he'd bedded.

With overwhelming tenderness, Actor drew him down into his arms and held him gently but very securely. "No, you're not," he said, "though maybe you were going just a little bit too fast." He stroked Garrison's hair, wishing he could see his face. "That's not your fault. I'm the one who talked about seducing you, having a few weeks of pleasure – but it's not about pleasure—"

"I can make it pleasurable." It was defiant.

"I'm sure you can," Actor said, kissing the top of his head. "I know you can, love, but it's still not important."

"Not compared with honour." There was sadness in Garrison's voice.

"Yes. But I don't aspire to honour, remember? It's also not important compared with being close to you, being with you." He drew a deep breath, astonished by the words that had come to his lips. He said them anyway. "Being with you for the rest of my life. This... feeling... is new to me, too, Craig. I'm standing on the edge of a precipice and when I step off everything's going to change – including me. It must be worth a few moments consideration."

There was a pause. Maybe Garrison was considering it. Then he said, "You can still step back. Being reborn, becoming someone else – that's hard."

"So wise," Actor whispered, and kissed him. "So wonderfully wise, but this time you're wrong. It's not hard – well, something is, but—"

"Two somethings. Incidentally, I'm sad to find your vocabulary so lacking. There's a proper name for it. In fact, sev—"

Actor stopped this ridiculous speech with a kiss. "I jumped," he said, against his mouth. "I'm falling. All you have to do is catch me."

Now, he was glad he could see nothing. In the darkness he was able to concentrate fully on other, more primitive senses, make a truer exploration of his lover's body, find unexpected delights of taste and scent and texture: rough nipples peaking in silky chest hair, the softness of skin in the hollow of his throat, inside his elbow, across his belly, the hard curves of ass and shoulder and, above all, the delectable taste of his mouth and the heat brushing his own stomach and thighs and – Oh Jesus – against the ultra sensitivity of his own erection as Garrison moved above him.

Starving for more, he reached up and pulled the other man down, rolling them both over and pressing him hard into the mattress, thrusting his own erection into the sweaty haven between balls and thigh, sandwiching his lover's between their bellies. Vaguely, he heard Garrison give a cry not of passion but of pain as they writhed desperately together, but by then it was too late and he was lost in his own orgasm.

He remembered it, though, when his senses returned, felt and heard Garrison gasping for breath in the darkness. He hurriedly raised himself from the other man's body, demanding, "What's wrong?" as he did so.

"Nothing," Garrison answered, carefully easing himself away from Actor, who dropped a hand onto his chest. In the seconds before Garrison turned onto his front, Actor felt his heart thundering, beating far too fast, even for someone in the aftermath of passion.

Actor climbed out of bed, pulling free far too easily from the hand that reached to restrain him, took half a dozen steps across the room, switched on the light, then came back to the bed, and rolled Garrison onto his back. The stitches in his upper chest had been removed, but the scar was red and angry, hot under his palm. He pressed, and saw Garrison bite his lip in an attempt to suppress his reaction to the pain.

"You cannot go on this mission," he said.

"Actor—"

"I will not let you go. I cannot."

"I let you go with Yates."

Stung, Actor stood back and regarded him coldly. "So you did. Maybe you are stronger than I am. Maybe you don't need me as much as I need you. What I do know is that I cannot – will not – take the risk of losing you."

Garrison closed his eyes for a moment. He said, "My father felt like that. He tried to stop my mother – my real mother – going into danger. It was destroying their marriage, even before she died."

"Oh God," Actor said, and reached to take him in his arms. "And you think – I'm not trying to change you or pen you in, _caro_ , but... dammit, you're not up to this. You know you're not."

Garrison had no reply, made no move to pull free from his hold, but his muscles were tensed and his back stiff under the caressing hands.

After a while, Actor said, "Besides, you didn't 'let me' go with Yates. You didn't have a choice. And how many times recently have you used your authority to keep me out of the worst of the danger, while you did something near-suicidal?"

"Too many," Garrison admitted. "I'm not strong, not where you're concerned. And I need you so much I can't..." He lifted his head and looked straight into Actor's eyes. "But I – we – have another commitment. One where I need your support, your ideas, your skills, your confidence and cheerfulness, just as much as I need... as I need your love. Help me, please."

Knowing you were being manipulated, Actor suddenly found, didn't help you to resist. It was the side of Garrison he had always feared, that ruthless devotion to duty that would sacrifice everything to the ideals he served. 

But... _"I need your love."_

For that, he could have anything – with one proviso. "So long as you protect yourself as you protect me, no more and no less."

Garrison had the grace to look shamefaced. "All right. It's time we went back to being a team. The best there is."

"It's working together that made me fall for you. Until tonight, I'd've said that working a con with you was better than sex, but then I wasn't thinking of sex with you."

"I was," was the prompt response. "Quite often. It was a good daydream, but the reality is better."

"I can't quite believe it is real. This morning, all I could think of was how Chief and Jaenicke were destroying your career – and now I'm the one putting that in jeopardy—"

"To quote Goniff: bugger that."

Heady with joy, Actor said the first thing that came into his head. "All right, if you can't think of something better to bugger."

Garrison chuckled. "I don't have the energy right now, but if you can get it up, go right ahead," he suggested.

Actor's stomach lurched as he realised just what he meant, followed by a flare of lust killed as abruptly by fear. He tried to cover his retreat with humour. "Wish I could. You don't get an offer like that every day."

Garrison laughed and snuggled against him. "Don't bet on that," he said, and promptly fell asleep.

 

He slept like a log until Actor kissed him awake. Once he realised what was happening, he hooked his arms around his lover's neck and prolonged the kiss until both had to draw breath.

" _Caro,_ I'm sorry," Actor sighed, "but you ought to go... at least, if you don't want to be found here."

"I guess..." Garrison stretched luxuriously, grinning at the way Actor watched his face for any further signs of pain. "Though this is how I want to wake up for the rest of my life."

It shattered Actor's facade. He tightened his arms around Garrison, hiding his face against his shoulder to conceal the fact he was near to tears. "I'd forgotten I could feel like this. Craig, _caro_ , be careful."

"I—"

_"Promise me."_

"I promise," Garrison said, knowing he almost certainly wouldn't be able to keep his word, and that Actor knew it too.

For a little while there was silence, then Actor eased himself out of Garrison's embrace. "So," he said, with the air of one assuming the mantle of reality, "hadn't you better tell me the details of my part in this plan of yours?"

"Chief knows them – but I could brief you now, I suppose. If that's how you really want to spend the last few minutes we'll have together before I fly out to Italy..." Garrison was smiling.

Actor didn't bother with words for his answer.

 

**Chapter 9**

 

Garrison skipped breakfast in favour of mending his fences with Chief. Besides, it would be easier for both of them if he didn't see Actor again until the mission had begun. He could tell that his lover was still fighting the urge to kidnap him and lock him away somewhere where he couldn't come to harm. Another lesson Actor was having to learn about command and not one he'd ever found easy himself.

To Chief he said, "Let's walk," and they set off along the ill-fated path towards the cliffs they had followed when Chief had threatened Jaenicke. Nor was the silence between them as easy as normal. Chief hated to talk about his emotions; maybe he'd never want to speak about the offer he'd made last night – sending him away might well have seemed like rejection – but they'd have to talk about Actor, for the conman's safety. "I want you to brief Actor," Garrison opened. "Every detail, Chief, just as I told you. And keep an eye on him. He's had a roller coaster emotional ride these last few days."

"An' he means a lot to you?" The question was diffident, but there was no avoiding it.

"A hell of a lot," he answered, "but then so do you, in a different way. And so do Goniff and Casino, in other ways – but I'll look after them."

"Yeah, and who'll look after you?"

"They will. And you and Actor will. You should find things easier with Actor, Chief. He's been a bit confused recently, but I think he's sorted out now."

Chief shifted uncomfortably, his gaze as unsettled as the sunlight shifting through the leaves he was watching.

"You aren't rivals, you know," Garrison added.

The Indian's eyes suddenly focused intently on his face. "He make you happy?" he demanded.

"Yeah."

"Sure didn't seem that way yesterday."

"Most of that was my fault. Really," he added, as Chief looked away again.

The Indian shrugged. "If you say so."

It was unsatisfactory, but it looked like it was as much as he was going to get. Garrison didn't push the point. Instead, they returned to the house in a silence that had suddenly become even more awkward, and parted before they reached the entrance.

 

Goniff and Casino scowled all the way through Yates's final briefing. That was hardly unusual for Casino, but for Goniff....

If only he could tell them what was happening, but if Jaenicke and Gottlieb – if that was really his name – caught wind of the deception then the mission was finished before it had begun.

The safest course was to let them act normally.

Of course, if Actor....

Stop thinking about Actor.

Which was, of course, impossible?

Casino, aware of his commander's distraction, scowled even harder. If this business with Chief and Actor was bothering Garrison that much he was going to be fucking useless – and here was the Colonel carrying on as if everything was normal. Blasted Army – thought you could replace parts of a team like the bits of an engine...

"One final thing," Yates said.

Casino, watching him, remembered a New York detective who'd always said that, just before he closed the trap around his mark. Last he'd heard, the cop had gone to California to get married. He wondered if Yates was some relation.

"Yes, sir?" Garrison asked.

"You're in charge out there. We need to make that crystal clear, and the General agrees. Which is why, as of now, you're promoted to Captain, with a brevet to Major for this assignment..."

It was the last thing any of them had expected. "Hey, that's great," Casino exclaimed, jumping to his feet to pound Garrison's back.

Goniff was on his feet too, his face split in a wide grin. "Congratulations, Lieutenant – Captain – Major... whatever."

Garrison was, astonishingly, looking quite dismayed. "Colonel, you can't—"

"Watch me," Yates said. "If I can keep Omar Bradley from snaffling you for his tactical staff, I can certainly get you the rank for the clout you'll need. Not only that, if I have anything to do with it the brevet rank will be confirmed at the end of the mission. You've dodged this for too long, Major. No-one deserves it more."

"My unit—"

"We'll talk about that after the assignment." Yates was still grinning. "I expect to get my eagle out of this too, son, so don't let me down."

Casino had caught up with what this could mean. He rounded on Yates. "Hey, you ain't takin' him away from us."

"No way," Goniff added. "Look, Colonel, we just got 'im trained—"

By now Garrison had pulled himself together. "Can it, you two. It's not your decision."

"Warden—"

"Later."

They subsided, though Yates was the recipient of some venomous looks.

"Okay," Garrison said, "let's roll. Colonel, Chief and Actor..."

"Nothing will be decided until you get back," Yates promised. "My word on it."

"Listen, babe, you won't even be able to find Actor." Casino threw the words over his shoulder as Garrison herded him out of the door. "I mean, the nerve of that guy..."

 

On the plane, though, it was Goniff who approached Garrison. "I am glad about your promotion," he said. "So's Casino, really. We're just bothered about what's goin' t'happen to us."

"Nothing's going to happen to you," Garrison told him firmly. "Keep your nose clean and get that parole, you hear me, Goniff."

"That's not what's botherin' Casino."

For the first time Garrison met the thief's eyes. "I know," he said with a smile. "It's not what's bothering me, either – but the main thing is to complete the mission. Then we'll sort everything out."

"Even Chiefy and Actor?"

"Even Chief and Actor. My word on it."

"Ah," said Goniff knowingly. "Wish you weren't so bloody tight-mouthed, Warden."

"If you and Casino weren't so damn slack-mouthed about some things, I wouldn't need to be."

Listening from behind closed eyelids, with Jaenicke really – he hoped – asleep beside him, Krantz was well pleased. 

His plan to remove Chief had gone amazingly smoothly – and by happy chance had eliminated Actor too. Temporarily, probably, he admitted, but that was a problem for the future. And he wouldn't be as dangerous under a new commander. At least, that was what he was trying to convince himself.

He wished that instinct didn't keep on insisting that it had all gone far too smoothly. After all, they were due for a run of luck.

 _"We have to break them," von Staaden had said_ – and he had taken the first step along that route, breaking the team if not any of its members. And that conversation he'd just overheard told him that other cracks were beginning to emerge.

He just hadn't expected that quite so soon.

It was a comfort that every mile the aircraft travelled took them towards Italy, and the trap that he, Müller and von Staaden had worked on so carefully what seemed like years ago.

Before the Allied invasion of France.

Well, all he could do now was play the part of the good soldier he was, and hope that von Staaden still thought the game worth the candle.

 

"Is that it?" Actor demanded, glaring at Chief.

The Indian spread his hands. "As much as I know, man."

As a briefing, it had been minimal to say the least. Garrison was playing his cards even closer to his chest than usual. "So how do we get out there?"

"Ted Archer's gonna fly us. The Warden arranged it."

"Does the Colonel know?"

Chief shrugged.

"Oh, great."

"Guess the Warden's pushin' it."

"The Warden knows that the Colonel will forgive him anything so long as he comes back with von Staaden," Actor said dryly. "What equipment are we taking?"

"Accordin' to Ted, 'Loaded for bear, pal, loaded for bear.'"

"Let us hope we are loaded for the Germans as well." 

Chief scowled. "Wish the Warden hadn't taken that pair of krauts."

So did Actor. "When is Ted expecting us? And did the Warden arrange an exit, or is he just leaving it to our imagination?"

"Midnight," Chief replied, taking the questions in order, "an' he said speak to the Sergeant-Major."

"What?!"

"That's what he said, Dad."

"Then let us by all means speak to him. Now."

 

They found the Sergeant Major in what had once been the Butler's pantry, in an ancient armchair with his feet up on the fender, though no fire burned in the cast iron grate. Birds were singing outside the open window and the onshore breeze perfumed the room with the smell of sea, sweet peas and overblown roses.

"Sit yourselves down," the Sergeant Major greeted them. "'Alf a mo an' I'll pour you a cuppa."

Battered tin mugs were produced, and filled from a teapot swathed in multicoloured knitting. The almost-black liquid was then sweetened with condensed milk and stirred vigorously to produce the universal glutinous brew that the British called "tea" more out of habit than conviction.

Actor had always preferred China tea with a slice of lemon, while Chief had never tasted the stuff at all before his arrival in England, but both had learned early in life to accept offered hospitality without complaint, and usage had hardened their palates.

At least it was better than acorn coffee.

They accepted the peace offering gratefully.

"We have to join Lieutenant Garrison," Actor opened. Then, in response to an encouraging nod. "We were told you'd arrange to get us out of here."

"I'll drive you down to Dashunt Lacey meself," said the Sergeant Major without any trace of surprise. "No-one'll question me. An' no-one'll report you missing, neither. I'll see t'that."

"If the Colonel finds out we're gone, you're going to be in trouble," Actor pointed out.

"Not 'alf as much trouble as the Lieutenant – Major, I should say – will be—"

 _"Major?"_ Actor interrupted, exchanging startled glances with Chief.

"Didn't y'know? ' E got promoted to Captain, with a brevet to Major for this assignment."

"Brevet?" Chief asked.

"Temporary," Actor explained.

"'Bout time."

"I couldn't agree more but, as I was saying, I'd rather you two crooks were out there backin' 'im up like you're supposed to be than 'ere causin' trouble." The Sergeant Major gave Chief a stern look. "You should be more careful where you throw them flick knives. Not to say that stickin' one o' them Jerries wasn't a temptation, mind you."

"Weren't me," Chief said. "Told you – I'd'a killed him."

"Then who was it? That's what I want to know."

"Well," Actor said, "forgetting opportunity for the moment, let's look at motive. It's been assumed the attack on Jaenicke was personal; Chief and I both disliked him, for various reasons, but that isn't the only possible motive."

"Name one," the Sergeant Major snapped.

"Well, let's suppose the attack wasn't meant to kill Jaenicke, but to achieve what actually happened."

"Whaddya mean, what actually 'appened?"

"We got sidelined, that's what happened. Now, who wanted that?"

The Sergeant Major stared at Actor in horror. "Lieutenant Garrison?"

"That's one possibility, especially as he knew Jaenicke was a phoney—"

"He what?"

"The Hell you say—"

"But the Warden didn't have the opportunity. Of course, he could have got Chief to do it—"

"Did 'e?" The Sergeant Major was fascinated, despite himself.

"No," Chief said. "Not that I wouldn't. But he didn't ask."

"Or he could have got you to do it, Sergeant-Major. You have the skill and are loyal enough. But I was with him when we returned here, and I don't believe he knew that it was going to happen."

"So who?"

"So who else wants the team split, and us sidelined, remembering that Jaenicke and probably Gottlieb are almost certainly agents for von Staaden and that he is almost certainly laying a trap for the Warden?"

"Bleedin' 'ell."

"Jaenicke did it himself."

Actor nodded. "Or Gottlieb did it."

"An'... Major Garrison knew it?"

"I can't be sure. I only worked it out myself a few hours ago, but he has an extremely logical mind. Yes, I think he knew – and used it." 

At least, I hope so.

"So whadda we do about it, Actor?" Chief asked, with his usual faint hint of irony.

"We do exactly what the Warden wants us to do. And hope he's got all the angles covered."

And that, this time, he isn't trying to protect us while putting his own head on the block.

 

From the moment their plane landed it was hurry up and wait in the best Army tradition. The situation in Italy had become a dangerous almost-stalemate. Too many Allied troops were being withdrawn in preparation for DRAGOON, and the rest were facing stubborn and well drilled German armies under one of the best commanders around.

Not that you'd've known it, though, by the state of intelligence headquarters. Military Intelligence was too heavily occupied with interviewing German and Italian PoWs and deserters to bother with Allied Intelligence not-really-soldiers. However, the local CIC commander briefed Garrison as far as he could on the current situation in Enemy Occupied Territory.

"Kesselring's got a bee in his bonnet about the partisans. We suggested to their leaders that they ease up, but they ain't having any. The nearer you get to the Field Marshal's HQ, the more Partisan activity there is. There was even an attempt to blow him up – and I bet you know more about that than I do."

"Maybe," Garrison admitted. Simon Machar was already at Frazini's HQ with his team and orders to make life difficult for the Germans – and Simon never had been able to resist the opportunity to build a bomb or ten.

"I can take a hint. I also get the message that this is secret and big. But I don't want my people threatened, Major, and I'd rather the partisans cooled it. They may figure that the more brutal the German reaction gets, the more people come over to their side, but I don't want my agents or non-combatants dead because of it."

"Then our priorities are the same." 

"Apparently even Mussolini has protested to the Germans about their treatment of the locals, and he got the brush off."

"He's a spent force," Garrison said.

"Actually, so is the King, but don't say that too loudly. I'm giving you fair warning, Major, EOT is no place to be if you can't pass as either German or Italian – and dangerous as Hell even if you can."

 

He also made a trip to the local USAAF airbase, ostensibly to arrange for their own transport behind enemy lines. Once there, he spent most of his time closeted with the base commander – and the maniac Italian SOE pilot who had been described by Actor and Chief in less than glowing terms, and by Ted Archer with fulsome admiration.

 

They were parachuted into the mountains, right into the midst of the partisans Frazini had sent to meet them. This was followed by the usual mad scramble to find the supplies, which had been dropped separately, and disappear before the Germans arrived, then a long march through the mountains, accompanied by the armed partisans, who cast any number of suspicious looks in the direction of Jaenicke and Gottlieb.

So it was with some relief that, on arrival at Frazini's headquarters – misleadingly well-built and well-camouflaged because it was meant to look as if it had been there for some time – he found the partisan leader waiting for him, with literally open arms.

As Frazini embraced him, Garrison said, very quickly, into his ear, "Enrico, I need to talk to you. Secretly."

"Of course." It was equally a whisper, right up against his ear.

Not that they need have been quite so careful. Frazini's men had stood respectfully aside, and Casino and Goniff had backed off in fear that Frazini might not only repeat the treatment, but kiss them.

"It is good to see you again." Frazini told Garrison, then turned to Casino and Goniff. "And you, my friends." He held out his hands to be clasped with relief by the two men.

As they were going through that ritual, Captain Simon Machar saluted Garrison – somewhat sloppily, it was true, but a military salute nonetheless. "Congratulations, laddie," he greeted. Then added: "Sir," with a blue-eyed twinkle.

"I'd better frame that – along with the times my men have called me it," Garrison replied, shaking hands instead.

The Scotsman was in his late thirties. He'd been a Chemistry lecturer at the Sorbonne before the war, had enlisted at its outbreak, been evacuated from Dunkirk, transferred to the newly-formed Commandos, then to SOE (and commissioned, over his protests) and had finally ended up with Allied Intelligence Special Units, all the while remaining the most unmilitary member of the military that Garrison had ever met.

"Have you run out of fingers, yet?"

"Only on one hand."

"Incidentally, where are the rest of your rogues?"

"There's a problem with that. Chief and Actor can't be with us this trip."

"Bloody Hell."

"Major Garrison, who are these men?" Gottlieb demanded.

Simon looked startled at being addressed in German, and several of the partisans reached for their guns. Frazini snapped orders, and Simon relaxed. "You must be either _Herr_ Jaenicke or _Herr_ Gottlieb," he replied, in the same language.

"Gottlieb. This is _Herr_ Jaenicke—"

"Yes, yes." Simon looked questioningly at Garrison.

"Major, _Hauptmann,_ this is Captain Machar, another of Colonel Yates's unit commanders," Garrison explained.

"All this can wait," said Frazini. "You must be exhausted – and no man can plan well on an empty stomach. Come, come, we have prepared quarters for you, and a meal."

Food, Garrison knew, was short, but they had brought enough rations – and cigarettes, the war's universal currency – with them that he need not worry about any of the resistance fighters or their dependants going hungry because of them.

And to have protested would have been a dire insult.

But the other man shouldn't have been able to see so clearly how tired he was. Actor had been right. The long march carrying pack and weapons had left him exhausted, continuing for the last ten miles on willpower alone. His chest ached, so much so that he was infinitely grateful to Frazini for the respite, for all of his intellectual awareness that the man was setting up the meeting he had requested.

 

And, indeed, during the inevitable chaos of greeting Simon's men, sorting out their equipment and generally orienting themselves, it was easy to slip away, without having even to make his planned excuse of finding somewhere to relieve himself.

Frazini's base was in a rocky, wooded valley leading up to a bare peak that would form a formidable redoubt if that ever became necessary.

Goats and chickens wandered between the – 'huts' was too grandiose – shelters which, roofed in a mottle of dark grey thatch and brown turfs and then covered in camouflage nets, seemed almost as if they had been burrowed out of the rock. They would certainly be invisible from above.

Which didn't mean the Germans didn't know about this place.

He was intercepted within seconds by a silent man with the wizened face of a mountain peasant, and eyes that were wells of grief. No words were spoken, but he followed him away from the caves and shelters, and into the forest.

Where he found Frazini waiting for him, sitting on a sawn log, smoking what passed for a cigarette. Seating himself beside him, Garrison opened a pack of Camels, took one, and passed over the rest, as his guide took up station just out of earshot.

Frazini discarded his smoke with a gesture of disgust, replaced it, and pocketed the pack in response to Garrison's "keep it" gesture. Once the ritual of lighting was over, he drew the smoke of Virginia tobacco into his lungs, then let it out slowly in a sigh of happiness. "Now, Major," he said, in English, "what is it I can do for you that you do not want the rest of your company to know about?"

"You can lend me someone who knows this area like the back of his hand, including the safe houses near Müller's HQ, who can be trusted absolutely, and who is useful in a fight."

"That is no problem." Frazini signalled to the guard, and said, in Italian, "Fetch La Freccia here, just as secretly as you brought Major Garrison."

"At once."

"La Freccia?" Garrison asked.

"The best of my couriers, knowing every tree and house from here to the Lines. Now she is one of my Captains. Her father was killed by the Fascists when he spoke against Mussolini, her brother in North Africa fighting for the Germans. She is as dangerous as a she-wolf and as silent as... how do you say?... as a wooden Indian. That is why she was the one I sent with your Colonel Yates, Actor and the others. Also— But here she is now."

Both men rose to their feet to greet the woman who had silently arrived while Frazini had been speaking.

"Benedetta, this is Major Garrison, who rescued me from Hauser's villa. You met two of his men when you escorted Colonel Yates—"

"The two German prisoners are back, yes?"

"Yes," Garrison said, meeting the calculating brown eyes with a feeling of intense _deja vu._ He shook himself. Perhaps he was simply startled because the woman was younger and taller than he had expected, and far more good looking.

"But the other Americans are not? Where are they? Is it because of them you wanted to see me?"

"I want you to do exactly as Major Garrison asks." Frazini turned to Garrison. "I take it you want this kept as secret as possible, so I will leave you with Bene—"

"No." Garrison put out a hand. "No, someone else ought to know at least part of what is going on, in case anything happens to me. I don't want any of you to take unnecessary risks." He looked at Benedetta. "You remember the other three Americans who were with Colonel Yates? Well, everyone thinks they're still in England, but—"

 

It was an abnormally large council of war for a partisan group, even in their circumstances. Garrison was reminded of the dictum, well known in OSS and SOE circles, that the best size for a committee was three, with two of the members absent on other business.

Admittedly Frazini was no longer operating a cell structure, and had taken to the hills with what amounted to a private army – an Italian _Maquis_ – but this must go against all his instincts, the way it did against Simon's and his own.

They were trusting him, and he had orders to throw away all their lives if it meant capturing or eliminating von Staaden.

Simon had not requested that any of his men be present, but Frazini had two of his 'captains' as observers and aides. Casino and Goniff were here too, with strict orders to say nothing unless asked, though Garrison had little hope of being obeyed. Finally, Gottlieb was here with, as the meeting was to be conducted in English, Jaenicke to translate for him – not, Garrison suspected, that it was necessary, though no doubt the German agent welcomed the time it gave him to think. Hopefully, any comments in Italian would pass them both by.

Don't count on it.

Garrison spent the first few minutes making sure that everyone knew why he was here, why Gottlieb and Jaenicke had accompanied him, and the importance of trapping von Staaden.

It was only then that he turned to Simon and said, "You've been making things hot for Kesselring?"

Simon looked smug. "So hot he's tightened up his security – and been complaining to von Staaden about the lack of results. Von Staaden is supposed to pay 'flying visits' to trouble spots – I reckon Müller's due for one."

"You're still in contact?"

It was Frazini who answered, "We have been taking all the precautions Colonel Yates suggested. Our contact has been in a most roundabout fashion. It takes time."

"But we twitched the fly a smidgen," Simon added. "Let him know indirectly that he was in contact with Frazini – and he didn't rise. Maybe he is on the level."

"I'd want out if I was trapped between a couple of hardcases like Kesselring and this von Staaden character," said Casino.

"Maybe," Garrison said, taking a long draw on his cigarette.

"It's a good thing you brought us here, Craig, because Franz won't close the deal until he's sure we're alive and free," Jaenicke put in, without consulting Gottlieb.

And until he can be sure I'm right inside his trap.

"You'll get to see him soon enough," Garrison said.

And I need to see him sooner. If Müller is Wilder, his task is simply to recognise me – but he knows that recognition will be mutual. Therefore he won't get into any situation where he can't be sure of taking me.

He said: "I need to take a look at Müller's HQ. And at the airfield."

"Why?"

It was Casino who answered Jaenicke's question: "To case the joint before we put the snatch on von Staaden."

There was a moment while Jaenicke consulted Gottlieb, then the younger German said, "But Franz can tell you all you wish to know."

"And I need to know if he's telling me the truth," Garrison said evenly. "There's a lot riding on this mission. And von Staaden knows that Müller is a friend of Major Gottlieb. It could be that Müller himself is being used to trap the pair of you. I would guess von Staaden wants you back, if only to make an example of you."

This time, when Jaenicke had translated Garrison's comments, Gottlieb replied directly, in German, "True. But he would also want to capture or kill our contacts."

"I'm counting on it. But he still won't be expecting us to take him out inside his own villa."

"It's not a villa," said Simon, who had been following the conversation, "but a house in Pontedorato."

That was a surprise. He had assumed that, like most German commanders, von Staaden's appointees would have ensconced themselves in country house luxury. Though, come to think of it, it wasn't only a German weakness. There was hardly a large country house or stately home in the Home Counties that wasn't occupied by troops or agents of one sort or another.

"A break for us," Garrison said, reverting to English.

"Uhuh," Simon said. "You haven't seen it, laddie. Back in the fifteenth century it was a fortified house – rather like your own HQ – and now it is again. At one stage they'd turned it into flats – apartments to you – but Müller saw the potential and turfed out the locals, pulled down a lot of the internal walls and stuck guns on the walls, windows and roofs."

"There is only one way in," Frazini added, "through a gate in the outer walls – which are nearly a metre thick – and what used to be a courtyard garden."

"What about the roof?" Garrison asked, thinking of Goniff.

"Guards there too."

Garrison considered, and everyone else watched him, waiting for his decision. "The better guarded it is, the less they'll expect us to get inside. Do we have any locals we could consult?"

"Benedetta?" one of Frazini's men suggested.

"She is taking a message from me to one of the other partisan groups," Frazini said, without missing a beat. He added, to Garrison, "She is one of my captains, and knows the town better than anyone. She still has family there, too... "

"Then what about her brother in law, Fabio Branconi? He's a native of Pontedorato, too. And an architect. A lot of our information comes through him."

Christ almighty! It couldn't be...

"Good idea. He's been asking for a more active role, but he's too well-placed for us to risk his cover – unless for something as big as this," Frazini agreed.

Garrison tried to control his breathing and his expression, though he knew he must have gone pale. No wonder he had felt that sudden rush of familiarity when he looked into Benedetta's eyes! What had Actor said his sister was called? Bettina? A pet name? She would be the right age—

And he had sent her off to meet Actor! 

But wait, she'd met him before, hadn't recognised him then, and hadn't shown any particular interest in him when they'd spoken... And Actor certainly hadn't recognised her.

But even if the pair of them remained in blissful ignorance – and he didn't expect they would – he was going to be dependent on advice from the Fabio Branconi who'd betrayed Actor all those years ago. Her brother-in-law indeed! The bastard was still keeping up the pretence after all these years...

Steady.

"Is something wrong, laddie?" Simon asked, one hand on his shoulder, concern in the blue eyes.

Garrison shook himself. This would not do. "Can Branconi be trusted?"

Frazini shrugged. "He was never a fervent Fascist. And he has good reason to hate the Germans. Also he is as frightened of Benedetta as the rest of us," causing a little burst of laughter among the Italians.

"Okay, I'll go see him."

As expected, this brought a chorus of protests, with Jaenicke and Gottlieb both wanting to make contact with Müller, and Casino and Goniff determined to go with him.

Garrison waved them down. "I have work for Casino and Goniff – and you'll all follow me very soon," he told them. "Safe house ready, Enrico?"

"Entirely."

"Good. When I send you word, move them in."

"And then we will contact Franz?"

"Indeed," Garrison said. "That is exactly when we will contact _Herr_ Müller."

"You still don't trust us, do you?" Jaenicke asked bitterly.

"Oh, I trust you, Werner. Possibly by the end of this you'll wish I didn't have quite so much faith in you. Rest while you can. You're going to be very busy very soon."

 

"Now you're not playing to the gallery, what's our next move?" Simon asked.

Garrison told him. Well, all that he and Frazini needed to know.

"Whew!" was Simon's comment. "Isna that just a wee bit complicated, laddie?"

"A _wee_ bit," Garrison agreed, grinning, and let Simon make of that what he would. "Though I may change my mind once we see the ground. That HQ worries me. Enrico, as soon as you take my men to the airfield and the Germans to the safe house, clear the camp and withdraw."

"Do you want us to keep up the appearance of an occupied camp?" Frazini asked.

"Not worth the risk. Get word to Benedetta and let her know I'm in contact with Branconi – but make sure that Jaenicke and Gottlieb don't know about it."

"Ah. Adders fanged."

"Simon?"

"As you trust our German friends."

Garrison had placed the reference. "Let's hope we don't end up like most of the cast of _Hamlet._ Meanwhile, let's go and see Mr Branconi."

Who I trust even less than I do the Germans. 

 

**Chapter 10**

 

Despite the undoubted mastery of the skies displayed by the USAAF and the RAF above Enemy Occupied Territory in Northern Italy, the RA-T11 had its lights out. It was also flying thirty feet above an aircraft that was virtually its twin, and which was less than one hundred feet above the tops of the pines, following the valleys of the Apennines.

If they had needed proof of the importance the Powers-that-be were giving to this operation, the availability of this aircraft supplied it. Ross Aviation's new baby, dubbed the 'Pronghorn' by the Navy pilots lucky enough to have been issued with it, could take off and land on a dime, had a range of nearly two thousand miles, and hauled the best weight to power ratio in the Allied air fleets.

Most of them were operating in the Pacific, but Garrison had somehow persuaded the local commanders to place one of the few of them in the European theatre in Ted's dubious hands, and send another to cover their flight.

This one was carrying so much equipment that Actor and Chief had been reduced to perching on it, cramped together in the cargo hold. Neither had spoken a word since Ted had taken the controls, but Actor was deeply aware of Chief's tension, and his scrupulous avoidance of any physical contact.

I'm not going to rape you, dammit.

But he didn't dare say it aloud.

"There's the signal!" Ted's voice called back to them, though he alone had seen the single flash of a light from the other plane. The engine vibration died abruptly, the noise dwindling as it moved ahead, and Ted dropped into a long glide towards the triangle of lights buried in the forest below.

Actor and Chief braced themselves.

The aircraft juddered, bucking back into the air, to hit the ground again on one wheel.

"Whoa, baby. Whoaaaaa!"

Actor closed his eyes.

Pained, the aircraft withdrew the wheel and tried the other in a rolling, dragonfly dance.

Actor felt hands clutching at him, realised it could only be Chief and just had time to be amazed as he clutched at the Indian in return. Then the nose tipped forward, throwing them and their equipment into a heap piled against the door to the cockpit.

"Oh man, I think maybe Casino's right about planes," Chief gasped, even as he hurriedly let Actor go and squirmed out of the chaos.

"He's right about some pilots," Actor retorted, making it loud enough for Ted to hear as the door opened half an inch, before being stopped by Actor's hip and a kitbag.

"Aw, com'on, you guys," Ted's voice said reproachfully, through the crack. "Got you down in one piece, didn't I?"

With much shoving and wrenching they got the door open and Ted into the hold. It took an equal amount of force to open the door to the outer night.

Which was warm and damp. Their boots squelched. Wind-blown drizzle tickled their faces.

As Ted bent to examine the plane's tyres with the hooded flashlight, Chief put a hand on Actor's arm. "Ted, cut that. Someone's here."

"Of course there's someone here," Ted replied, without either turning off the light or pausing in his examination. "Who'd'you think set up the landing fires?"

"Where?" Actor asked Chief. Ted's logic was unanswerable, but that didn't mean they were safe.

"Over in th'trees. More'n one. An' large. Not sure all of 'em's human."

"Okay. You get around behind them. Ted and I will take a little walk in their direction – act innocent, Ted, if that's possible. And turn off that bloody light."

 

Waiting for them at the edge of the clearing, as if she hadn't moved since they'd last seen her, was the woman who had escorted them from Frazini's camp a few weeks before. A string of four mules was tethered at her back.

"Good evening," she said, in good but heavily-accented English. "Now could you tell your friend that he does not need to creep along through the trees. "

Chief was scowling as he emerged from behind her, furious that she had heard him – though it had been impossible to move silently on the thick cushions of dry pine needles.

Actor, on the other hand, automatically bestowed his best smile on her, though he had enough presence of mind to stop himself attempting to kiss her hand.

Ted went bright red and started peppering his sentences with "'scuse me, ma'am"s.

The woman said, in English, "You are...?"

"Actor."

"With 'Chief'?"

"And Ted."

"I have been sent by the Warden." Credentials thus established, the woman relaxed slightly, and added, "You can call me La Freccia. There is a place for the aircraft under the trees. We can use the mules to haul it into cover."

"Why not taxi the damn – 'scuse me, ma'am – plane?"

The woman looked at Ted with contempt. "That would make too much noise. And I don't think you would have as much luck missing things as you did landing."

"That weren't goddamn – 'scuse me, ma'am – luck. I can—"

"Let's just do as she says and move the plane, Ted."

 

At the other side of the clearing, an area of scrub had been hacked away, as had the branches of the trees behind it, to a clear height of twenty feet. With much cursing – and "excuse me, ma'am"s from Chief as well as Ted – the mules were persuaded to turn the plane and haul it, tail first, into the improvised hanger, where it was pegged to the ground and smothered in camouflage netting.

Deciding that anything else could wait until morning, Actor ordered everyone to get some sleep, taking the first watch himself. It was quiet, but he had something to occupy him, for La Freccia had drawn him aside and passed him a hand-written message. It was in code, using a one-time pad, but Actor recognised the clear printing, with its distinctive Cs and Hs.

Even that small contact with Garrison sent a thrill through his loins, though it also made him catch his breath in remembered fear.

Damn it, what had Craig got himself into now?

Even when decoded, the message was elliptical, using gangster and military slang. Nor did it give him any clue as to what devious thoughts had prompted the new orders.

But at least he's being careful, Actor thought, as he carefully cut away the scrap of silk with the cipher Garrison had used printed on it from the rest of the pad then watched it shrivel in the match flame.

For how long?

Even as he worried, the prospect of being allowed to join the game pleased and excited him. Garrison had kept him out of the action for too long, and he had had the sneaking suspicion that, as his 'hold out cards' he and Chief would be kept in the background unless things went wrong. On the other hand, the weaponry they were carrying hardly fitted that scenario.

Though he woke Ted the prescribed two hours later, Actor was still worrying and speculating until dawn.

 

When that dawn came it was with startling swiftness, the different colours of grey, pink and yellow writhing in ecstasy through the trees.

Chief used the opportunity to scout a short distance from the camp. He found water close by, but no sign of human inhabitants, hostile or otherwise. Returning to camp, he wriggled under the netting, and extracted the tiny stove, k-rations and coffee.

He was making coffee and heating the cans when there was movement – nothing so gross as a snapped twig but still a disturbance louder than the wind. He swung round, the knife-hilt dropping into his hand, blade springing like a fish in the light of the newly-risen sun.

La Freccia nodded approval at his reaction, then shoved the pistol that had been pointed at his chest into her belt and seated herself cross-legged on the ground.

She didn't ought to be here – but as she was...

He got rid of the knife and sat besides her.

"Your friend – the tall one – what is his name?"

Chief watched the bubbles forming with an intensity far in excess of any need. "Actor."

"That is not a name."

Chief shrugged.

"'Chief' is not a name either." Then, "'Ted' is."

"La Freccia ain't a name neither," Chief flung back at her.

"It serves its purpose. If I tell you my name, you will tell me yours?"

"Per'aps."

She glared at him in anger, whether real or mock he couldn't tell, then said, distinctly, "My name is Benedetta."

"Mine's Rainey."

"Rainy?" She looked at him in disgust. "That is not a name either. That is how you would describe yesterday, yes? A rainy day."

"Not rainy day, Rainey Garvey," Chief said seriously.

She stared at him for a long moment, then burst out laughing.

Chief grinned at her. "It really is Rainey."

"What about your friend?"

"He's had more names than women, an' more o'them than a porcupine's got quills." There. He'd warned her.

"Has he married any of them?" she asked sharply.

"Nope. But there is... someone special." That was an even plainer warning though, on second thought, maybe it had been a mistake. Some women would see that as a challenge, and all women seemed to think they could reform a man.

As Christine had thought.

Damn.

"Guess I'd better wake the others."

"And I must water and feed the mules."

"Suppose they need breakfast too. Don't be long, though. It's real coffee."

"That would be reason enough," Benedetta replied, and vanished into the trees, leaving Chief to wonder about those other reasons as he strode across the clearing to rouse Actor and Ted.

 

With full daylight, they loaded the mules with most of the portable equipment. Ted was, for the moment, to stay with the aircraft.

"How far is it?" Actor asked La Freccia, as he checked the line that led from the pack saddle of one mule to the bridle of the next.

"Not far enough, perhaps," the woman said enigmatically, taking a look at his work with an air of chagrin when she found nothing to criticise.

"She's an odd one," Actor observed to Chief, as they prepared to follow the woman down the mountainside.

"She wanted t'know what your real name was," said Chief, who didn't agree.

"Oh. What did you tell her?"

"That I didn't know." Chief hesitated, then added, "Told her you had someone special."

"You didn't tell her who?" Actor asked in alarm.

"Not that stupid, man." Chief jerked the rein, making the mule on the other end toss its head and eye him evilly over a crescent of white.

"Gently," Actor said. "You can order a horse, but you have to con a mule."

"Ain't never had nothin' much t'do with either," Chief admitted.

"By tonight you'll be an expert." Actor chirruped to the mules and followed La Freccia.

Before Chief could decide how you 'conned' a mule that had already summed up your ignorance pretty accurately, the animal plunged forward in pursuit of its fellows, almost dragging him from his feet.

 

Garrison and his partisan guide settled themselves at the crossroads just after dawn, but it was only after a three hour wait in the boiling sun that they were picked up by a rackety bus, so dusty it was impossible to tell what its original colour had been. The front seats were full of German soldiers, plainly returning from the local fleshpots on a one or two day pass, while sullen middle-aged Italians brooded in the back.

Now was the time when, if their disguise wasn't perfect, it would be penetrated, Garrison knew, as he limped heavily down the aisle. Anyone as young as he was needed some sort of excuse not to be in the services. His civilian papers and the doctor's certificate he carried spoke of an incapacitating chest wound to go with a badly-healed femur. He had the scars to confirm the former, some of them still raw.

That was not something he wanted to think about, so he settled himself on the very back seat, pushing his way past a couple of stern-looking white-haired patriarchs with apologies in Italian that was already taking on local tones, where he could see out of the smeared and fly-specked windows.

The countryside still had an air of prosperity, though there were fewer men to work the land than there had been before the war. The women had taken on that for the most part, he knew, while their husbands and sons and brothers went to war, or made tanks and aircraft and guns...

There was an aircraft in sight now, a Siebel Si by its silhouette, coming in low from the North. He watched it idly, wondering if Casino and Goniff had taken up their positions at the airfield in time to see it land.

Actor had been wrong. He had heard of Pontedorato before, but then Actor didn't know about his family connections with the aircraft industry.

Unless Mom told him.

Anyway, thanks to the proximity of the one area of flat ground within a hundred miles big enough to build an airfield, Pontedorato had acquired not only that, but consequent repair shops and parts manufacturers to support it. BM – before Mussolini – a number of specialised aircraft had been hand-built in the Pontedorato shops to make – sometimes successful – attempts on various speed and endurance records. More recently, under Mussolini, the factory had specialised in the manufacture of airpanel instruments of the highest quality, destined for the Italian airforce.

The Germans had taken over both factory and airfield, but he didn't suppose there was much left of the former. Still, despite the depredations of the Allies, the airfield was plainly in use, though Frazini had told him that no unidentified people had arrived for over two months – since Müller himself, in fact.

Damn it, Casino and Goniff had better be in position.

 

Casino and Goniff had, in fact, been in position since early morning, though fog rolling down the mountain slopes had prevented them from seeing very much at first.

When it began to clear, they found they could make out the shape of a big German staff car parked near a burnt-out hanger. Ten minutes later, they could see the occupants.

"That's Müller," their friendly neighbourhood partisan identified. "He's waiting for someone, I think."

Indeed, the sharp-looking, iron-haired _Wehrmacht_ officer had hitched himself on the hood of the staff car and was chain smoking. As the sun rose higher, he must have worked through over half a dozen cigarettes.

Yeah, it's Müller, Casino thought. Anyone that casual with smokes in this neck of the woods is one important little German.

The sun grew hotter. In their tree-shaded perch, Casino and Goniff lay back, smoked and made desultory conversation. In between, they listened to the wind, the leaves and the insect buzz.

Only one insect was buzzing louder and longer than the others. Enough to be irritating.

Casino sat up, then nudged Goniff with his foot.

"Gerroff," Goniff muttered, waving a hand vaguely, as if fending off the insects.

Casino poked harder. "Aircraft!"

"Whaa?" Goniff sat up. "Don't be so daft— oh."

The Siebel Si 240 transport had just touched down and was now bumping over towards the reception party.

Müller saluted the man who climbed down the aircraft steps; though it was too far away for them to hear the _"Heil Hitler,"_ let alone the heel click, there was no mistaking the punctiliousness of the greeting. Middle-aged, grey-bearded, with a military bearing despite his civilian clothes, the recipient of this respect was accompanied by two men in _SS_ uniform – probably _SD_ , though Casino could not identify military badges even through the Zeiss binoculars that all the Gorillas had purloined at one time or another while behind German lines. Indeed, Goniff had lifted a particularly magnificent pair for the Warden, and presented them to him with much ceremony last Christmas.

Yeah, _SD_ or, worse, _Gestapo_. Casino had seen men like these often enough in New York and Chicago before the war, though he reminded himself that, if half of what Garrison had said about von Staaden was correct, they were likely to have been selected for brains as well as ruthlessness.

"So that's the big cheese," was Goniff's comment.

"Von Staaden himself, baby. Don't see who else it could be. The Warden's gonna be as pleased as a pup with two tails. Be even better if we managed to intercept them on the road," he added wistfully.

"Uhuh. If the Warden's got a plan, we'd better stick to it. Looks like they're off, anyhow."

Müller had opened the car door and ushered all three men inside, before climbing in himself.

Goniff pushed an elbow into Casino's ribs. "Hey, Actor wouldn't've done that."

"Done what?"

"Held the door open for a junior officer. He'd've expected one of that pair to do it for him."

"Yeah." Casino lowered the binoculars and stared at Goniff instead. "Now you point it out, it looked to me as if getting into that car was the Ober-sturm-whatsit's idea, not Müller's or von Staaden's."

"Then who's conning who?"

"We'll see what the Warden thinks."

 

Fabio Branconi was unexpectedly charming; short, slender and as handsome as Actor himself, with more exotic features and larger, darker eyes. The pair of them must have been fearfully efficient as adolescent sexual predators.

Now Fabio looked what he was – a successful architect, owner of the biggest building company within fifty miles, a businessman who could probably be just as unscrupulous as he had been those sixteen years ago, but verging on premature middle age.

The same age as Actor, but Actor would never be anything so stodgy as middle aged, not with his wicked grin and devotion to risk and pleasure in equal measure.

Craig Garrison, you're prejudiced.

"I'll do anything I can to help," Fabio was saying, with a winning smile that glinted gold. Garrison wondered if it had been Actor who had broken those teeth, and felt better for the reminder. "For one thing, Bettina would kill me if I didn't—"

"Bettina?"

"Benedetta Tesauro, my sister-in-law. She has a fearsome reputation in our family."

"And among the partisans," Garrison said dryly. " _La Freccia._ The arrow – and as swift and lethal."

"Named after the record breaking aircraft, really. Its engines and instruments were built locally, at the factory where her father was a partner, before Mussolini confiscated it. If there was anything left to inherit, it would have come to my sister Gina's son, after his grandfather lost his temper with the Blackshirts one time too many."

"And your brother-in-law? Your sister's husband?" Garrison asked, poking at the sore place just to see what Fabio would say, as he couldn't ask about Bettina's twin brother without revealing just how much he knew.

Fabio's handsome face clouded. "That is... another story entirely. Gina's husband deserted her. No-one knows where he is, or even if he is still alive."

And no doubt you'd rather he were dead. Well, _Le Signore_ Fabio Branconi, he isn't, and, sooner rather than later, you're going be have a quite dreadful surprise. As it is, I don't see why we shouldn't put you – and your sister – to some use.

"I didn't mean to pry," Garrison said mendaciously. "Well, _Signore_ , I guess it's too much to hope that there are plans of Müller's headquarters available."

"There aren't supposed to be, but I used measured drawings of that building for my degree. I still have them."

"Great. But we need to look over the ground."

"Not dressed like that. The only reason I'm still a civilian is that I know too much about the buildings, roads and water courses around here for the Germans to interfere with me – and I'm much more use to the partisans that way too. They've left a uniform and papers for you."

It was hard not to be impressed by Fabio's efficiency. And Actor had never suggested that his old friend was stupid, or uneducated, or a coward – or, for that matter, a traitor.

Said old friend stood watching him as he stripped off his overalls and changed into a khaki uniform with an armband marked _'Org. Todt'_ above the swastika, marking him as a _Hauptbauleiter_ – captain – in the _Organisation Todt_ , the German construction corps. This gave him an ideal excuse to be seen with Fabio and, if he was challenged, he could produce the appropriate papers.

"Who is this Müller?" Fabio asked. "The partisans have asked for him to be watched, though that is not as easy as it might sound. He seems to vanish for long periods, and he's been spotted in civilian clothes, though he normally wears an officer's uniform; sometimes _Wehrmacht_ , sometimes _SS_ , and then the rank is not always the same, either. When he's in _la fortezzina_ , though, he is closely guarded."

"Security," Garrison said. "Not _Sicherheitsdienst_ or _Abwehr_ , but something rather special. He isn't under Kesselring's command, though if the Field Marshal yells hard enough I guess he'd go running."

"Right again, Major. Silvia says that the men who guard _la fortezzina_ – they wear the uniform of _Waffen SS_ , but without unit insignia – are furious about the number of times they have had to provide an escort recently."

"Who is Silvia?" Garrison asked, feeling vaguely Shakespearean and a little silly.

"Silvia is another of my relations, who is walking out with an Italian officer who is attached to Müller as liaison. Where do you think I get so much information? Now, come along, Major, or it will be afternoon and people will wonder why we are not having a siesta."

 

Actor had quickly come to an accommodation with his mule, which followed amiably enough behind the swaying nut-brown rump and fly-swish tail of the second of La Freccia's tandem. Both had figured that Chief would be better bringing up the rear; his mule liked that position and was, La Freccia had said, unlikely to get too far behind, or to miss the trail they were beating out.

The woman knew these mountains, just as well as Actor had once known them... but she was definitely heading in the wrong direction for his peace of mind.

Calm down. The chances of Müller setting up shop in Pontedorato are vanishingly small.

Calming down was something he had been having trouble with over the last few days, and the mule's stoic obedience left him with too much time to think.

What on Earth had possessed him, that last night in the Dower House? This... affair... was dangerous to him, and even more dangerous to Garrison.

And, despite being promised that they wouldn't be separated in the midst of danger, here he was on the outskirts of the action again.

Because Garrison trusted him.

Yeah. Maybe. But Garrison shouldn't be here at all. Oh, he could see why Colonel Yates had decided to send him, despite his lack of fitness, but the Colonel wasn't in love with him.

Am I?

Well, it certainly felt like it. But in five years, ten...?

Would Garrison still be in love with him?

The only answer was to take it one day at a time – but ought he to have taken that first step after all? Or had he really had any choice?

 

None of the citizens of Pontedorato – or, for that matter, its current occupiers – took any notice of them as Fabio steered Garrison in a native's zigzag course though the steep and narrow streets – hardly more than alleys, by the American's reckoning. Even in wartime Italy, shutters and doors stood wide, and he caught glimpses of courtyards busy with chickens, children and dogs, bright with flowers and ripening black grapes.

But the blue paint was flaking, and he saw few men his own age, but too many women in traditional black mourning. The war had already taken a heavy toll on Italy, and it was apt to get worse as the Allies advanced and the Germans fought back with increasing desperation.

He mustn't bring the wrath of either down on these people, who included Actor's family...

Who maybe still had that claw-hold on his heart?

He wished he could be sure that his own would be as long-lasting.

 

"Where exactly are we going?" Actor asked La Freccia, as they ate a hurried lunch of slightly stale bread and good cheese, spiced by olives the woman had brought with her.

"Didn't Major Garrison tell you?"

"He weren't sure where this guy Müller'd got his HQ," Chief said. "Only that it was within spittin' distance o' Kesselring's."

"Which has been moved several times since we broke through the Gustav line," Actor contributed. "We are going to Müller's HQ?"

"Yes."

"Which is?"

"Half a day's march."

La Freccia didn't want to tell him. But why? It couldn't be for the same reason he needed so desperately to know.

"Will the L— the Major be there?" Chief asked.

La Freccia smiled widely. "But of course. That is why I have been sent to bring you to him – and why we must hurry." She brushed her hands on her already filthy trousers. "Come."

 

Sitting at a brightly painted table in a tavern that faced _"la fortezzina"_ as Fabio called it, though it had never been a real fortress, Garrison got to ask all his questions. Even in the shade it was so hot and humid that his lungs were lightly scalded with each breath, so hot that the two black and white cats sprawled along the veranda did not even stir themselves in the hope of scraps. The flies were more hopeful, but even they buzzed languidly in short hops from table to table.

Garrison sipped his glass of rough red wine and watched the square in reflection, reversed in the cracked mirror advertising a local – and long unavailable – beer which hung in a futile attempt at decoration on the back wall.

It might be hot, but the sentries' heads turned to watch anyone risking blindness by stepping into the floodlights of the noonday sun. Come to think of it, he could see real floodlights on the towers above the gate.

Three men on the gate; one to inspect papers, the other two to guard him as he does it. And the gates won't be opened until they're sure.

"Who gets in?" he asked.

"Uniformed Germans. With the correct papers. There aren't many of them. Oh, and _Maggiore_ Andreoni, who's the Italian liaison."

"Cleaners? Cooks? Garbage collectors? Gardeners?"

"Not locals – except for the gardener, who's an old man called Pilati, and his thirteen-year-old grandson. They're allowed into the courtyard, but there're always a couple of soldiers watching them."

Well, he'd never expected it to be easy. "What about the houses on either side?"

"The _SS_ use them as barracks."

"Figures. Is that the town wall behind it?"

"Yes. Fourteenth century and four metres thick. It forms the back wall of the building."

"What's the other side of the wall?"

"The river. I'll take you round to the bridge in a minute, so you can see for yourself."

"Has there been any increase in tension, leave cancelled, more guards and greater security at the gate?"

"Not that I've noticed. I will make enquiries – discretely. Why?"

Garrison answered with another question: "Do you know if anyone except Müller has come in from the airfield recently?"

"Not within the past seven weeks," Fabio said, confirming Frazini's information. "but, just before you arrived, I had word that Müller had driven out of town. That might mean anything or nothing."

True enough. But if von Staaden was arriving it was before they were ready. And they would have lost any chance to trap him on the road. 

So if we can't get in, we may have to get them out.

"What would happen if the HQ was, say, bombed or mortared? Where would Müller go?"

"Not into the street if that's what you're thinking. Three weeks ago, a couple of Allied bombers didn't make it to the airfield and unloaded their bombs close by. One actually hit the town wall. The Germans stayed put."

"Damn. They must have some sort of air raid shelter in there, though I would've thought the building's too near the river for cellars."

"You're right," said Fabio. "I never considered it before, but— " he paused to think. "When the town walls were expanded at the time the second bridge was built – the current one's the third – they acquired towers, and a series of guard rooms built into the wall along its base. There's one in the wall that forms part of _la fortezzina_. When the place was converted into apartments it was used as a communal wine cellar. It's dug into the earth, and the thinnest of its walls is over two metres thick. You could use it as a dungeon or an armoury – and, if I was looking for somewhere to hide in an air raid, I would look no further."

It was not what Garrison wanted to hear. "There's only one entrance? No links between the guard rooms in the wall itself? What about the sewers?"

"No and no. Not now. And the sewers will undoubtedly be booby trapped."

"Undoubtedly."

"Besides, they're too small for a man to crawl through, and the outflow is overlooked by the Germans on the wall."

Definitely not easy. Perhaps not even possible.

Garrison put down his glass. "Let's go take a look at the river side."

 

There was still no sign of a road, but La Freccia had found a track that led along the edge of a mountain lake. Dark woods lowered on either side, sandwiched between bright sky and brighter water. The air was hot and still. Twenty-two legs swished through the reeds that rimmed the narrow track in soporific rhythm.

Which was shattered as a covey of duck rose from those reeds, right under the noses of the mules, jostling wings in the air as they fled noisily across the lake.

Startled himself, Actor reacted with instincts that were over twenty-five years old, hanging onto the halter rope and digging in his heels as firmly as his mule. He could hear La Freccia alternately whistling and swearing and knew she could cope but, familiar with horses and mules since his childhood, in his preoccupation he had forgotten that Chief wasn't.

The Indian's reactions might be quick, but he just wasn't ready for the placid creature at his side to become a rearing, snorting fury that snatched the halter-rope from his hands.

Even then, things might have been salvaged but, as the mule whirled to bolt, the bank disintegrated under a rear hoof. The mule hadn't got a prayer. Its heavy load shifted, dragging it towards the lakeside. Unbalanced, the animal toppled over backwards, crashing into the water with a splash that set the other three mules squealing and cavorting. As Actor and La Freccia tried to control them, Chief snapped his knife open in his hand, then dived into the Outer portion of the target of widening ripples.

For a moment the mule's head surfaced in the bullseye, front legs threshing, before its pack dragged it under.

The reeds vanished only a yard from the bank, which Chief had interpreted as meaning the lake dropped to depth damn quickly. He was also sure the panicking mule was too heavily weighted to keep itself afloat and he was right on both counts, though the mule's legs churned the water with the speed and deadliness of propellers.

There was no time to be careful. Chief swam in above the mule, gripped the top of the pack to haul himself down, and slashed at the girths. They parted under the blade, and so did the mule's skin. As blood clouded the water, the animal convulsed, bucking away pack and saddle.

And now Chief was going down too. Something – perhaps it was a hoof – struck a glancing blow to the side of his head. Pain greyed even survival instinct, driving the breath from his lungs. His grip closed convulsively on the pack, not realising it was dragging him to his death.

There was a sharp blow to his wrist. His fingers relaxed involuntarily... and then someone was hauling him up to the surface.

It was only as his head began to clear that he realised, to his astonishment, that it was La Freccia – Benedetta – who had saved him.

And now Actor was beside him too, swimming strongly. He relaxed, and gave himself into their competent hands.

 

Garrison and Fabio leaned on the parapet of yellow stone beside the fifteenth-century bridge that had given the town its name. It waded the sluggard river in three arching steps, revelling in the shade provided by the jagged-topped remains of the old town gate. To their left, the river snaked around the base of a curving wall of crumbling, damp-darkened stone, quite low beside the bridge, but over forty feet high and battlemented by the time it reached the point of the bend.

Fabio followed Garrison's gaze. "Yes, _la fortezzina_ is behind the wall at that point."

"And guarded." Garrison had seen movement on the battlements, where the wall was as high as it had ever been.

"On the roof, yes."

And below that roof the wall was solid. Even the arrow-slits had been blocked. The remnants of a staircase, probably one that had risen inside a long-fallen bastion, clung to its inner edge, festooned with barbed wire. The bastion had been replaced with a small wooden tower, and even from here he could see the searchlights and the wicked muzzle of a machine gun.

He switched his gaze to where an Allied bomb had taken a bite out of the wall. "From there you'd be able to see the bridge, the inn and the HQ building."

Fabio nodded. "But anyone climbing up there would be spotted immediately by the Germans."

Garrison thought about it. " _Signore_ , doesn't that wall look unsafe to you?"

Fabio frowned. "No more than it has for years."

"But suppose some of that masonry was to fall down on the road. The Germans wouldn't like it littering the highway, would they? It might get in the way of their tanks. And it might mean other blocks were unsafe. Would the Germans make the check themselves?"

Fabio, who was not slow on the uptake, was beginning to grin. "Oh, my, I see what you mean. Naturally the wall is dangerous. And to answer your question, they would get _Maggiore_ Andreoni to blackmail me into mending it for nothing. I suggest those blocks, there, just below that patch of weeds, might be the worst."

"A good position."

"And just one little charge – pardon me, heavy gust of wind–" The sound of smooth-running engines caused him to step back into the shadows, drawing Garrison with him, as two motorcycle outriders heralded a big German staff car that swept across the bridge, assuming that all other traffic would get out of its way, which it dutifully did.

Garrison caught a glimpse of the driver, and four unknown men, two in _Waffen-SS_ uniform and two in civilian clothes in the rear. None of the men were young, none particularly distinctive, though one had a grey beard...

He looked to Fabio for identification.

Who said: "It looks like your 'important visitor' might have arrived, _Signore_."

"Which one was Müller?"

"The sharp-looking grey-haired clean-shaven one in the _Oberstleutnant's_ uniform."

Well, that confirmed his logic. He'd never totally bought his father's idea that Franz Müller was Hans Wilder. There was too much danger for von Staaden's plans in the risk of him recognising the spy. It would have blown the whole plot wide open.

Damn it, he needed Actor and he needed Chief, and they were the two people he didn't have to hand right now. Though they'd be here soon enough.

He pulled a face at a mask carved in the stone, so weathered that only a blurred indication of features were left, needing a greater leap of imagination than he could attempt to identify them.

"Let's get back to your office," he suggested. "I want to look at those drawings. And there may be word from La Freccia."

 

**Chapter 11**

 

Chief sipped the hot coffee Actor had made for him, on the fire that was a danger to them all but which the conman had insisted on building over his own protests. Now he admitted to himself that he really needed that warmth, and that of the two blankets draped over his shoulders and his knees.

Actor had somehow managed to tie all three unscathed mules to the trees, and remove his shirt and boots before diving in after Chief, yet would probably still have managed to reach him in time... if he hadn't caught that blow.

Right now, the conman was tending to the shallow cut he had left on the belly of the mule, while Benedetta scratched its ears and talked to it.

Not that he could complain about the fuss they were making over the animal; they had both fussed over him first.

Despite everything, Actor was a good friend.

And, Chief admitted to himself, he'd known for a while just how the Warden reacted to some men – to himself, even.

Don't make no difference. The Warden's the Warden.

And Actor was Actor.

While Benedetta was something else again. And now he owed her his life.

They hadn't spoken one word of recrimination, but it was his fault that some of their most important equipment was down at the bottom of the lake, too deep for them to recover, his fault that they were going to be stuck here for the rest of the day, his fault they were going to be late for their rendezvous with the Warden, who was depending on them.

Actor hadn't spoken a word of blame, but that was because he knew Chief would blame himself.

It made his head hurt even more.

And because of him, they were going to have to stay here overnight – and that would let the Warden down.

He'd let the Warden down.

He didn't know how he was going to cope with that.

 

"I thought we were going back to your office," Garrison said, following Fabio in another swift – and entirely different – tour of the backstreets.

"We are. My house backs onto my drawing offices. I think it's safer we go in that rather than through the front door again. Once, you won't be noticed. Twice... Well, the Germans stay out of the backstreets unless they are in pairs, and armed." He bounced up a short flight of steps and opened the door through into a private garden that might have dropped straight out of the Renaissance, all clipped evergreens, statues and falling water.

"Like it?" he asked, catching Garrison's admiring glance as he led the way up another flight of steps that ran across the outside of the house.

"Very much, but—" As Fabio reached for the door knob, Garrison heard a voice speaking Italian. As he grasped it, he recognised it. 

Garrison's own hand clamped down, trapping Fabio's fingers and detaching them from the knob.

As the Italian yelped with pain, Garrison clapped a hand over his mouth and dragged him downstairs and out into the courtyard, where he thrust him against a wall and glared at him from a couple of inches. "You bastard! And I nearly fell for it.

"Major, what is wrong? Why—?"

"Leading me right into Müller's arms. If I hadn't recognised his voice—"

"Müller has never been here. I swear I don't know what you're talking about!"

"Then who was that in there?"

"My wife, Rosa. And Silvia Tesauro, who was married to—"

"Stop stalling," Garrison said grimly. "I heard—"

He broke off, Fabio freezing in his grip, at the sound of laughter, then a man's voice...

" _Merda!_ Get down!" Both men ducked into the space underneath the stairs, which rang with the clack of feminine heels and the heavy clunk of boots.

Peering round the edge, Garrison saw a plump and handsome brunette appear, followed by a gamin girl and a dark-haired, moustachioed man in the uniform of an Italian Major, carrying a toddler in his arms.

Once out into the courtyard, the man handed the delightedly squealing child to the girl, who balanced it on her hip with the ease of long familiarity.

Garrison pulled back, catching Fabio's collar to drag him with him.

"Whew!" the Italian breathed. "I'd no idea he was here."

"Who's 'he'?"

" _Maggiore_ Andreoni. He's playing court to Silvia."

Garrison was rapidly getting lost among Fabio's relatives. "And how's she related to you?"

"By marriage. She is Benedetta Tesauro's twin brother's widow."

"Oh. And who is this Andreoni? Apart from being another prospective relative by marriage?

"He's a liaison officer attached by Müller to Kesselring."

"Like Hell he is." Despite having to speak in whisper, Garrison put venom into the words. "I knew him as a German spy called Wilder – and that was in Switzerland."

" _Merda,_ " Fabio said again. "Silvia has been pumping him for information."

"And he her, no doubt."

"She doesn't know anything – but Frazini needs to be told –"

"Indeed," Garrison said, "and it also means a change in plan. Meanwhile, you'd better get out there and exchange genialities."

"Right. Go through the passageway and make your way up the back stairs. The offices are on your right, through the black-stained door. One of these keys will fit." Fabio pressed a jumble of metal into Garrison's hands, smoothed his own hair, and then stepped out into the sunlight. 

"Silvia! _Maggiore!_ But this is delightful." Fabio pumped the _Maggiore's_ hand, then reached to kiss the girl's cheek. "And to think I nearly missed you. And my second favourite nephew." He ruffled the child's hair. "If I'd've known you were here I'd've got rid of that most-tiresome client sooner."

"I was sorry to miss you. But your dear lady has entertained me most capably, besides enjoying her role as chaperone. She makes a happy change from the formidable Benedetta. Where is she, by the way?"

"Visiting Rosa's parents in the country."

Fabio, it appeared, was perfectly capable of coping with Wilder – just as Actor would have been. Satisfied that nothing would be given away, Garrison slipped through the open door and into the cool, elegant house.

He climbed the stairs and sorted out the keys with automatic efficiency, his thoughts elsewhere.

When he'd heard Wilder's voice, he'd automatically assumed his father had been right after all, despite having had Müller identified to him and despite his own logic.

At least Father put me on my guard.

But why was Wilder here? Was he meant to recognise him, as part of a deeper, more sinister plot?

Well, if he hadn't been subconsciously half-expecting the spy, he probably wouldn't have spotted him at all, given the language, disguise and the uniform. There was no reason for von Staaden to suppose he would have had the information to tie the names together. That depended on luck, and he didn't think von Staaden relied on that, any more than he did.

No, Wilder had to be here in Pontedorato because he could put the finger on all of the Gorillas. And, as he had to be around, von Staaden, or more probably Müller, was making good use of his talents.

Or perhaps 'Müller' was a stooge, and it was really Wilder who was running the operation. Maybe Wilder really was Müller, playing the cosy game of pretending to be one of his own officers and working his way into the community while someone else played target.

If this was meant to confuse him, it was succeeding.

Get down to cases. Of a certainty, it won't be Wilder who comes to the meet, whether or not they think I'll be there. I don't need to change that part of the plan.

And perhaps Wilder – and Silvia – can be put to good use.

One of the keys finally worked and he was through into the handsome _Bauhaus-style_ interior of Fabio's offices.

He could hear voices in the drawing office, so turned left into the room where he had met Fabio this very morning – and found it occupied. Not by – as he had half hoped and expected, Benedetta and maybe even Chief and Actor – but Simon, Casino and Goniff.

"What the Hell are you doing here?" he demanded.

"That's a fine welcome. We got news," Casino explained, as Garrison looked threatening.

"Yeah. 'Pears von Staaden's turned up already, Warden. He arrived this morning, large as life and twice as natural. We thought you'd want to know. That's why we 'ad the partisans take us to Captain Machar, an' e brung us 'ere."

Garrison hitched himself on the edge of the desk. "Tell me about it." 

 

"But one thing still bothers me, Warden," Goniff finished. "They must've known the partisans were watching the airfield."

"Yeah. Maybe Müller was trying to signal to us which one was von Staaden," Casino suggested.

"That could be it," Garrison agreed. He began pacing the room. Goniff and Casino looked at each other with resignation and lit up. When the Warden got that look in his eye it usually meant trouble, but there was nothing you could do to avert it.

Simon, on the other hand, didn't know Garrison as well as they did. "I've been keeping Gottlieb and Jaenicke busy," he said. "We tapped so many lines I began to wonder if the entire German economy is based on the manufacture of telephone cable. Anyhow, Gottlieb finally recognised Müller's voice on the other end. We can ring back and set up the meet when and where you like."

"Tomorrow," Garrison said absently, bending to rummage in the bottom drawer of the storage chest in which he had seen Fabio place the drawings the other man had shown him that morning. "Now, take a look at these." 

There was silence for a time, broken only by Garrison's comments on the changes he knew the Germans had made and what he had observed that day.

"That's one Devil of a tough nut, laddie," was Simon's comment.

"Tough! It's fuckin' impossible," was Casino's. He cocked an eyebrow at Garrison. "So whadda we gonna do, Warden?"

"I'm not sure yet." Garrison frowned down at the meticulously-drawn lines and faded colour-wash. "Branconi calls this place _la fortezzina_ – the little fortress. He has a point."

"Your original plans anticipated something a wee bit more vulnerable," Simon pointed out. "They aren't making it easy for us."

That was hardly unexpected. Von Staaden or Müller or whoever was in charge of this catch-Garrison trap was not going to arouse suspicions by making that trap too simple. On the other hand, he hadn't bargained for them setting a challenge he wasn't sure he could meet – except in the one way he was sure was expected.

Goniff had been following his thoughts. "We're goin' to have to con our way in. An' we ain't got Actor now we need him."

Garrison wasn't going to think about the ways in which he needed Actor. "We can certainly con our way in," he admitted. "The problem is getting out. If nothing else, we need to draw their attention away from the front gate."

"Looks like that's the only way in, babe."

"There's always the roofs," Goniff suggested, with a sly look at Casino.

"Uhuh. This whole block is occupied by the Germans, our target is one and a half-storeys higher, and there're guard posts on the roof. And searchlights. And wire."

"What about this thing, Warden?" Goniff asked, tracing a long finger along the ink lines surrounding a heavy block of brown edged on one side with light blue.

"That's the old town wall. We're going up there tonight."

"Guards," Goniff reminded him. "Wire. Searchlights."

"We aren't going into the HQ itself. Simon, how much explosive would it take to breech that wall at its base? Here, say."

"Too much. See, these sewers are too small for a man. Besides, they're undoubtedly grated and booby-trapped. You'd have to drill the wall. Even with shaped charges—" he shrugged "—it'd be iffy. You'd be likely to bring the whole thing down. And how would you plant the charges? That's the river, isn't it? And there are guards on the roof. Boats or swimmers would be spotted, day or night. We don't have a diving crew, and, even if we did, it'd take more than the odd limpet mine."

"Old fashioned cannon levelled that kind of wall easily enough."

"Not that easily. And by repeated physical blows from cannon balls."

He had a point. That bomb had fallen directly on the wall. It had taken a bite out of it, but the wall stood. Stood twenty feet tall.

Shit.

Regretfully, Garrison finally abandoned the idea of using the mortar Actor and Chief were bringing in to blast through the wall.

And just where the Hell were the pair of them, anyway?

He had stopped in front of a glass-fronted bookcase and was staring in a preoccupied fashion at the contents. There were footsteps outside the door. Hurriedly, he abstracted a book from the shelves and pocketed it, getting shocked looks from both Casino and Goniff. No doubt they would never let him forget it.

The bookcase was shut and all four men had guns in their hands before the door opened.

Fabio pulled to a stop, dismay on his face, hands going up automatically.

"These are my men," Garrison explained, as he holstered his gun, and signalled to the others to do the same. "This is _Le Signore_ Branconi. Casino, Goniff, you'll start working for him tomorrow morning."

"Doin' what?"

"Stopping lumps of town wall from falling on German soldiers," Garrison said. Then to Fabio: "You've not heard from La Freccia?"

"No. I'm afraid not."

He forced himself to calm. "What about Andreoni?"

"Gone. At last." Fabio sounded harried. "You should not be up here. None of you. All it needs is someone working late... Come with me. I have a place for you to hide. And Rosa – my wife – is making dinner for you. I have to go to tell her there are more guests. Come, come." 

"Can I take these?" Garrison asked, rolling up the drawings, so that Fabio had little choice in the matter.

"Yes, of course," he agreed, with good enough grace, "though I would like them back eventually unless doing so would put anyone in danger."

"I'll take good care of them," Garrison promised.

Let's hope you take good care of us.

 

Once safely ensconced in what had once been a stable, but which was now a store and carpenters' workshop, Garrison handed over the ground plans and a map of the town with instructions to Simon and his men to memorise them, sat down on the third step of the ladder leading to the loft, and immersed himself in the book he had purloined from Fabio's office.

He only put it away – hurriedly – when Fabio's wife bustled in with a huge pot of pasta and good bread. She offered wine, too, but Garrison refused it on behalf of them all, much to Casino's disgust.

"You gone abolitionist on us or something? Lissen, if—"

"You can drink all you like when this caper's over. For now just shut up and eat. Then you'd better get some sleep. Captain Machar and I need to check up on the others, but later we're all going out for a little sightseeing."

 

Pontedorato was under curfew, which meant that, as soon as they had eaten, Garrison and Simon had to hurry through a dusk full of people scurrying to their own bolt holes. Simon's bolt hole – where he had left both his men and the two Germans – was in a cellar under a deserted and half-ruined house not far from the telephone exchange and therefore convenient for wire-tapping purposes. At which Simon's second-in-command, usually known as Wireless, was the Crazies' undisputed expert.

Garrison cornered him just as soon as he had extracted himself from Jaenicke's questions.

"You're tapped into the lines to Müller's HQ?"

"H' bin fer a foortnight," Wireless said laconically, in an accent even more unintelligible than Goniff's. When Garrison had asked, the only reply he had got was, "Geordie," which left him none the wiser.

"Have we identified any particular voices?"

"Several. There's this lad Andrew-oni who comes on t'line a lot, loik – but we'd already pinned doon Müller before y'r pair of tame Jerries confirmed who he was."

"No prompting?"

"No' frey me."

"Can we get through to him?"

"Just g'us five minutes."

Garrison turned to Gottlieb and Jaenicke and switched to German. "Wireless is getting through to _Herr_ Müller. _Herr_ Gottlieb can do the talking. _Herr_ Müller will recognise your voice, right?"

"Yes, of course."

"Just tell him to go to Giovanni's tavern. At one o'clock tomorrow. He's to sit behind the man he recognises. Nothing more."

"He will have questions."

"And answers. In time."

 

"I've been considering the best way to ensure that von Staaden comes to Pontedorato," Garrison opened, as soon as he had gathered Simon, his men, and the Germans together. Of course, his speech was only being aimed at Gottlieb and Jaenicke. "We've been building up partisan activity to make Müller look incompetent and to get Kesselring hopping mad. It doesn't seem to have worked," he went on, unblushingly, "so our next step will be to abduct Müller. That should bring von Staaden here at a run." He looked across at Jaenicke. "Your job tomorrow, Werner, will be to explain this to Müller and get him to co-operate."

"What then?" Simon asked.

"Casino and Goniff are already watching the airfield. Once we have Müller we'll join them. Werner, Gottlieb and Müller are all capable of identifying von Staaden – and he'll certainly stop his convoy if he sees Müller at the roadside, apparently wounded. That's when we make the snatch," he added.

"It sounds very simple," Jaenicke said, after he had translated for Gottlieb.

"For us, it will be." Garrison took a long draw on his cigarette. "Second step is to talk to Müller. That'll be your job, Werner."

"And the first step?"

"That's what Simon and I'll be doing tonight – arranging a vantage point where we can both watch and cover the meet."

 

It was not ideal weather. The wind had strengthened and there was the faintest touch of drizzle in it, enough to slick down the dust on tile and stone. A half-moon kept slipping behind streamers of cloud. At least with the town blacked out and under curfew, anyone on the streets could be assumed to be hostile.

Not that they were on the streets. To Casino's horror and Simon's dismay, Garrison and Goniff had been in agreement that the safest way to get onto the wall was to go from roof to roof along the close-packed houses.

Those roofs had a very low angle of slope, but the big earthenware tiles were fragile and not always secure.

Not, Garrison suspected, that anyone in the houses below would stick so much as a toe out of bed, whatever they suspected might be stamping across their roofs.

Goniff went first, light-footed and seemingly oblivious of the height. Simon followed, stepping very carefully exactly where the cat-burglar had put his feet, pale faced and resolutely not looking down. Casino cursed quietly to himself, one hand stroking the ridge tiles or reaching down for fingertip balance. Garrison, bringing up the rear, was even more careful where he put his feet, but stayed close enough to steady the safecracker if necessary.

Using the street plan, Goniff had mapped a winding elevated track across the roofs from Fabio's loft, so that they didn't have to jump or descend to street level before they reached the wall, where an easy leap of three feet would take them to its top, though on the wrong side of the town gate. Garrison only hoped that the plan was up to date, that Goniff's sense of direction was as good as he claimed, and that the bombs hadn't taken down any of the roofs they meant to traverse.

They were opposite the highest part of the wall now, could see quite clearly the extra scoop of sky where the bomb had bitten deep into the old stonework.

"That's where we need to be," Garrison told Goniff.

"Thought so. This way." Goniff set off again.

"Blasted Limey thinks we're goddamn monkeys—"

"Shut up, Casino." Garrison jerked his head towards where the wall rose even higher into bastions crowned by the spiky scaffolding.

For a wonder, Casino shut up. Well, at least until he realised that there was a gap of four or five feet between the roofs and the top of the wall. Then he started cursing both Goniff and Garrison, though he kept his voice down in deference to the nearness of German guns.

Simon swallowed audibly. "Seconded, Casino."

"Com'on, mate. It's closer than the ground," Goniff said maliciously. "Jump four feet or drop twenty."

"What about the landing?" Garrison asked him.

"Looks safe enough. Them stones've stood for hundreds of years wifout topplin'." Then, to Simon, "'ere, mate, let's 'ave yer bag."

"Okay. But be care—"

His words were lost in the night with Goniff as the cat-burglar made the leap look easy. Garrison saw the flash of teeth and eyes as he grinned, and the quick thumbs up that confirmed the safe landing place.

He himself went next, carefully not looking down into the street that ran below this part of the wall. However hard the landing on the wall, it would be harder on the street. Goniff was right, though, and the wall didn't move with the shock of his considerable weight. 

Simon followed. He almost didn't make it and had to snatch at a clump of grass for a handhold. Before that could give way, Garrison and Goniff hauled him up. Casino, on the other hand, landed fair and square on in the middle of the wall, though with a thump and an "Ouff!" that made Garrison glance quickly towards the guardpost.

"Now where?" Casino growled, trying to sound nonchalant and failing miserably.

"Follow Goniff."

Moving only when the moon was behind a cloud, Goniff led them along the narrow ledge that crested the gate archway, then up a broken slope onto the top of the wall, thick with weeds and jagged stones.

It was here that they were in most danger. They were still below the highest part of the wall. The Germans on the watchtower had only to switch on the searchlights and they would be picked out instantly.

The searchlights might also draw Allied bombers. Garrison was counting on that fear to keep them switched off. But if the guards glimpsed movement, heard a noise—

Ahead, the wall rose suddenly in a jagged cliff of stone, twenty feet high.

Confident that he was hidden from the searchlights, Goniff started up the wall, climbing the blocks as though they were massive steps into the sky. Simon was right behind him, determinedly looking upwards, still putting hands and feet exactly where Goniff placed his.

Casino shrugged, took a deep breath, and followed.

Garrison hesitated a moment to catch his breath and admire Goniff's skill and Casino's courage.

They mustn't go back to jail after the war. Wouldn't go back if he could prevent it...

But how?

Not the right time to think about it, though it had been on his mind a great deal recently. Actor he could probably divert, or at least protect. Chief... Chief he would have to keep close too, make use of the other man's hero-worship, much as he disliked the idea—

He shook himself and started up the wall at Casino's heels, catching him up easily by a mixture of technique and strength.

I'm not going to survive the night if I keep daydreaming like this...

Used to ignoring pain, he had pushed the stabbing reminders in his injured shoulder to the back of his mind, but as he found the next handhold and started to haul himself upwards, his right arm went on strike.

"Warden, what's wrong?" Casino's hand came down to snag his collar and stop him sliding.

"What's happening?" Simon hissed.

"Warden's in trouble." Casino's reply was strained. He was having enough difficulty hanging on one-handed, supporting most of Garrison's weight as well as his own, without the need to answer stupid questions.

"Keep on comin', Captain." Goniff's voice, though quiet, was assured. "'ere we go. Now, can you 'old on?"

"Yes."

Garrison wasn't sure he could, and he could feel Casino's arm shaking. "Let go," he snapped.

"No way."

"It ... won't do any good if we both ... fall."

"You ain't gonna fall." The voice was Goniff's. So was the hand that went under his arm. He had to bite his lips to stop himself crying out as, between them, Goniff and Casino hauled him up onto the top of the wall. Simon was already scrambling along on hands and knees, heading for the bomb crater. Goniff and Casino dragged Garrison after him.

_"Was is das?"_

_"Has du was gehört?"_

"Leave me – get into hiding –"

"Shut... up."

The searchlight eyes flared, making the darkness beyond Stygian. The roofs seemed to undulate in response as the beams stroked over them, feeling for danger, while the wall stood grim and rigid under their touch.

Garrison heard Simon curse, and a stone fall. There was a splash below.

The beams raced to find the sparkle of ripples, trace the curves of the bridge.

Even as they rose again, the men dropped down into the bomb crater, and were hidden from the prying eyes. They lay unmoving in an irregularly breathing heap as the searchlights continued to finger each nook and cranny.

The only movement they found was that of the weeds waving in the wind.

"Are your missions always like this?" Simon asked, conversationally, in Goniff's ear.

"Naw, this one's a doddle. Com-par-at-ively."

On the roofs, the light from the sweeping beam was reflected greenly in tiny twin imitation. With a yowl, the cat's lean body flashed away from the ridge and into the valley of darkness beyond.

Abruptly, the searchlights vanished.

In the beams, though, Garrison had seen something exciting. Here, in the hollow, much of the stone beneath their feet had been squared, as if this part of the wall had once been paved.

As soon as he had caught his breath, he said: "Simon, as well as taking down that side of the wall into the street, can you set a charge to lift one of these slabs."

"A shaped charge." Now Simon was in position and dealing with explosives he was quite calm. "We'll blow all the charges together – hopefully without making much of a bang. But what do you expect to find?"

"This is the only stretch of the wall that's anything like its full height. We've been told it's solid, except for a series of storage rooms along the bottom. But back in the fifteen century, when the present bridge and gate were built, this part of the wall was heightened and widened by the rich merchants who lived in the houses behind it – the biggest of which now forms Müller's HQ. I don't believe they made that wall totally solid, not when they already had two sides of a ready-made tunnel in the form of the old walkway on the battlements. That isn't the way a Renaissance merchant would think. They were pretty sneaky – and lived in dangerous times."

"Just like you, huh?"

Garrison ignored that. "I noticed this lunchtime that, though the interior of the wall is rubble, there are lines of squared masonry. Like this one. If this represents the top of the earlier wall we'll find any tunnel just below it."

"If it's there."

"Is that what this caper's about? Or are you just playin' historian?" Casino asked plaintively.

"Call it playing a hunch, instead" Garrison told him. "How long, Simon?"

"Five minutes, if Casino helps."

"I'm helping, I'm helping," Casino whispered, "Sooner we finish, sooner we can get the sick grizzly there back down and safe. What the Hell was Yates thinking of, anyway?"

"Getting his hands on von Staaden."

"Well, let's make sure he doesn't lose us our lives in the process."

 

Though Garrison had made no attempt to monitor Gottlieb's call to Müller, the first thing he and Simon did on their return to the safe house was to question Wireless about it, hoping that the German had been fooled by the Englishman's impenetrable accent into underestimating him; Wireless might not speak German, but he understood it as well as they did. "Müller kenned him right off. Gottlieb told him he was orl reet, but no more than that and what y'told him t'say, loik. Y'think he's on the level, lad?"

Garrison shook his head. "We'll find out soon enough."

"Ne doobt on that."

It was as he was about to fall asleep that he suddenly worked out why he had felt so uneasy about Fabio's wife.

 _"I hadn't looked at Gina," Actor had said. "I was hopelessly in love with a girl named Rosa."_ And, _"It was when Fabio called Rosa a slut that I really lost my temper."_

Had Fabio married that same Rosa he had so insulted? And did Actor still care about her?

And if he does, just what are you going to do about it?

The thought put paid to any chances of sleep that night.

 

Chief woke from sleep with a start, into a lightless night. Though the moon was shrouded in cloud, he could hear one of his companions moving in the camp, coming closer.

His hand automatically opened to take his knife, then relaxed again as he recognised Benedetta's scent and lightness of movement.

A hand touched his shoulder, drew back the moist blankets and slipped under them with him. The body that pressed on his was undoubtedly female – and naked.

"Bene—"

"Shhh." Her mouth took his, soft and urgent, as her hands pulled at his belt.

Arousal speared him

He hoped to God that Actor was asleep – but the fear of being watched was submerged in other, more urgent sensations.

Freed from his pants and unwilling to be submissive, he rolled Benedetta beneath him, forcing his tongue into her mouth, and filling his hands with her breasts.

His hardening cock was already pushing between her thighs, and he used his knees to force hers apart, giving him room to find his goal. 

He thrust towards it. But he had just enough experience to realise that she had none, and tried to slow down, using all the discipline Garrison had taught him, pausing with the head of his cock touching the entrance to her body. "You.... sure?"

"Do it!"

He needed no urging to thrust into her warmth. She was tight but not dry and they rocked back and forth until the sweet sucking catapulted him to orgasm.

They lay together, panting in the damp, cool darkness. Then Benedetta tried to pull away, but Chief held her close, knowing she was near to tears from her trembling.

"Why?" he asked. "Was your first time. I don't fuck virgins—"

Though there had been Christine. Not that he'd ever got this far with her. They were going to wait until they married.

"The Priests already regard me as a fallen women," Benedetta said bitterly. "Why shouldn't I make it real?"

"You musta had opportunity before."

"I wanted you. Leave it at that."

"It ain't that easy. You told me you got family—"

"Oh, I am already a fallen woman in their eyes too. I am unmarried, live with men, and fight alongside men."

Chief held her closer, guessing that she needed to talk, though he wasn't much for words himself. Benedetta sniffed a little, then said, unexpectedly, "I had a twin brother, Rainey. Do you know what that is like?"

"Ain't never had no brothers. Or sisters, neither."

"I do not know whether to feel sorry for you or envy you. My elder brother— Never mind. I was going to tell you about Giorgio."

"Your twin."

"That's very special. When Giorgio died, something in me died too. My family... didn't have any men left. Someone had to redeem the family honour. Mama is too old, Tommaso and little Giorgio – my brother's son – too young. And it would not be fair to ask Gina or Silvia. They are not Tesauros by blood. There was only me."

"You ain't 'only' anythin'..."

This time, he concentrated on trying to make it pleasurable for her, and, though he was not sure he had succeeded, their last kiss before she slipped away held tenderness.

She sure is some woman, he thought, yet again surprised that she should choose him. Guess she's had a raw deal too. But she's wrong. Least she had brothers, still has a family. She wouldn'ta wanted to swap them for the Boarding School, no way.

But I guess the last coupla years've been easier for me than for her. Least I had the Warden to tell me what to do.

His final thought was of relief that Garrison had never taken him up on his offer to ease his frustration...

 

**Chapter 12**

 

As they marched on through the cool morning, Actor was becoming more and more uneasy as the countryside about him took on a specific familiarity.

That was the rock where he and Fabio had built a fort, over twenty five years ago, and that was the stretch of river where they had swum, and the deep pool under the trees where they had never caught that big pike, and a few miles ahead, amid in the vineyards and olive groves, was a villa where they had always been welcome, where the _Signora_ had fed them bread and cheese and cakes, and where the nuisance of a child who had always wanted to go with them had suddenly been transformed in her sixteenth year into a beauty who had turned his head and stolen his heart...

"Hush!" Chief said suddenly, the switchblade dropping into his right hand, as he hung onto the shying mule's rein with his left.

Actor stopped dead.

Their guide swung about, the word, "What—?" halted half-uttered as she saw Chief thrust his rein into Actor's hand before disappearing into the trees, cutting off the bend in the dusty track.

Actor put fingers to his lips in warning, and signalled to her to help lead the mules off the road and into the cover of the deep ruts and vine-topped ridges of the vineyards.

 

Chief was back within a minute, travelling fast, but finding their hideout in the shade of head-high vines without much difficulty. "Kraut patrol. Spread out wide an' lookin' like they mean business."

"Damn. We can't let them go on to find Ted – or lay their hands on us. How soon will they be here."

"Three minutes, maybe four."

"Give Chief your rifle, and get rid of the rest of your weapons," Actor told La Freccia, delving into the depths of a mule pack. "Got a skirt? No? Then strip to your underwear."

"Hey, wait just a minute," Chief began, though he had taken the rifle La Freccia handed to him, and caught the second weapon Actor threw in an automatic reaction.

His protest was unnecessary. La Freccia overrode it with her own furious objections in Italian. Actor snarled back at her in the same language as he pulled off his own boots and trousers, before telling Chief to, "Get up on the West ridge, in the pines, with the sun behind you. We'll hold the Germans here. Once you're in position, put a shot over my head. After that, if you want to kill something, try the Germans."

Chief grinned. "No sweat." La Freccia was looking questioningly at the Indian, who was beginning to get an inkling of Actor's plan. "He won't try nothin'," he told her. "Lessen he don't want me to miss."

Then he was gone.

"Com'on," Actor ordered, as La Freccia finished stripping. He cast a last look at the mules to make sure they were properly secured, though they were browsing with too much enthusiasm to want to stray for a while, snatched up the last of his props, caught La Freccia's hand, and hauled her out of the vineyard and onto the grass beside the stream.

 

Under Fabio's foreman's expert instruction, it had taken Garrison, Casino and Goniff only two hours to raise the scaffolding against the wall, though it might have been less if Goniff had been able to understand him. Nor had the inexpert instruction from the all the interested bystanders, both Italian and German, speeded the process.

What was more, every time Garrison started to pick up something heavy, one of the others forestalled him. Nor could he protest, as the only language he could use would be Italian, which would seem like picking on Casino, who spoke it, if badly.

Neither man had disputed his right to be first to the top, though, Garrison thought with some satisfaction as he scrambled up the ladder. Of course, in Casino's case it was probably simply putting off the evil moment when he would have to ascend...

Once onto the top of the wall itself, Garrison's first action was to check the place where Simon had laid the charge shaped to blow downwards.

Between the lifted slabs was a jagged hole. When he shone his flashlight into it, the beam reached several feet into a pile of rubble, stretching away on either side. In one direction, the beam found a wall of stone blocks, but to right and left there was nothing but darkness.

"I'll 'ave a butchers." Goniff was kneeling at his side. "Lend us your torch." He took the flashlight from Garrison, and wriggled into the hole. Alarmed, Garrison grabbed his belt with both hand, not sure if he was stopping the thief from falling or from the danger of the exploration.

Goniff's head re-emerged. "You were right, Warden. There's a tunnel runnin' off in both directions. Want me to go in and explore?"

Garrison hesitated, torn between the lure of the unknown and his duty to watch the meeting with Müller. As usual, duty won. "Okay. I want to know how far the tunnel runs in both directions, and if there are any other exits. Casino, see if _Signore_ Branconi will lend you a surveyor's tape, but don't tell him why you want it."

"Warden, I ain't crawling through no tunnel, an' you ain't either, not after last night."

"Go get the tape."

With a final glare, Casino stepped carefully onto the ladder and was soon clattering down to find Fabio.

 

By the time the Germans arrived, travelling in a long line, with none of them on the track, Actor and La Freccia had been in the stream and out of it again, and were now locked in a wet and falsely passionate embrace on the bank. An Italian soldier's tunic and the butt of a rifle were just visible poking out from behind the willows, as if a much larger pile of clothing might be concealed there.

The instant the first German soldier spotted them, he shouted for his _Unterfeldwebel_ – his sergeant – to come. Actor sat up, and began swearing at the Germans in a mixture of Italian and fractured German, while the soldiers goggled at La Freccia. All, that is, except their _Unterfeldwebel_ , a shortish, shrewd looking man in his middle thirties, who had not forgotten to point his gun at them. Now he made a gesture with it, indicating that Actor should move aside.

At once, La Freccia threw herself in front of him and began screaming insults and pleas at the _Unterfeldwebel._

German NCOs are generally reckoned to be the best in the world, but this one hadn't been trained to cope with outraged Italian womanhood. Even as he cowered behind her, Actor began to develop admiration for La Freccia; the woman was a natural.

And where the Hell was Chief? If he didn't get into position soon, the Germans might get bored or irritated enough to shoot the pair of them.

 _"Ein Deserteur"_ was the _Unterfeldwebel's_ opinion, expressed _sotto voce_ to the nearest of his men.

_"Erschießen wir ihn?"_

_"Später,"_ The sergeant turned back to Actor and asked, in passable Italian, "What is your unit? And why aren't you with it?"

Actor proceeded to tell him, volubly and at length. His unit – and the one he mentioned was indeed stationed close by – had been ambushed by the treacherous anti-Fascists who were betraying _Il Duce_ and _Herr_ Hitler too. He had escaped by a miracle, so he had come to his village to burn a candle to the Virgin, and to see his wife – well, she would be his wife soon – and how dare they, as Germans, accuse him when the bandits had had Germans with them—

Yes, indeed, they were Germans. He had heard them speak. Were they doubting the word of a good Italian Fascist—?

"Where did this happen?" the _Unterfeldwebel_ interrupted, with new interest.

Actor waved an expansive had towards the horizon where, he hoped, Chief was now hidden. "Perhaps two, three miles that way. Do you know the area? There is a place where the river has cut an arch through the rock." Ah, yes, so they did know it. Did they also know the road that runs past it, up the gorge into the mountains towards—?

The shot came so close he felt the wind stir his hair. Actor parked a look of shock on his face, and his hands on his chest. Redness spilled out between his fingers as he let his knees buckle so he crashed face down into the prickly mountain herbs.

Even before he started falling there were more shots, though the sounds were almost drowned by La Freccia's screams. With gestures worthy of an operatic heroine, she flung herself down beside him and swept him into her arms, cradling his head against her chest.

Peering under his eyelashes and over the curve of her naked breast, Actor could see that Chief had downed at least two of the soldiers. The others were either behind rocks, or flat to the floor and rowing with their elbows to join them.

Actor heard the _Unterfeldwebel_ shout out his orders, sending his men into the pines on their right in an attempt to outflank the sniper. He and La Freccia were ignored.

Within a couple of minutes they were alone except for the dead Germans.

Actor grinned up at La Freccia. "Either you are a born actress, or you really do fancy me."

Her response was to tip him viciously into the prickles, leaving him cursing as she strode away towards where they had hidden the mules, the generous curves of her buttocks swaying invitingly.

Actor watched with appreciation, then, recognising the need for haste, picked up his jacket and followed her, cursing both stones and thorns.

By the time he caught up with her, she was already half dressed.

"You really were good back there," he said, stepping into his pants. "We need to get these beasts moving and out of sight before the Krauts get tired of looking for partisans and come back to pick up their dead."

"Damn the mules. What about Rainey?"

"Rainey? Oh, Chief. Chief can look after himself."

"You are supposed to be in charge of him! Major Garrison said you were in charge!"

"Right. That's why I'm telling you to move out. Chief will join us, I promise." He searched for something to convince her. "You've heard of Red Indians? Well, that is what Chief is, a Red Indian."

"Really?" La Freccia asked, wide-eyed.

"Yes, really." It was amazing what exposure to American movies could do to destroy native intelligence. "Now come on."

"A Red Indian," Actor heard La Freccia mutter, just loud enough to make sure he had heard. "And a very handsome one..."

Which, given Chief's earlier reaction, was... interesting.

 

From his vantage point in the town wall scaffolding, Garrison lay flat, field glasses in hand, and watched Jaenicke and Simon seat themselves at the same tavern table he and Fabio had used the day before.

His own wife probably wouldn't have recognised Simon, whose sandy hair had been dyed grey and whose brand new and alarmingly sad moustache completely changed his expression.

Another of Simon's team had been both actor and make-up artist before the war.

There was an interminable pause – no doubt much longer for Simon and Jaenicke – while they ordered their meal and cradled their drinks. Then Casino touched Garrison's shoulder. A man – one of the men in the back of the staff car on the bridge – was making his way across the square.

"That's Müller."

Focusing the field glasses, Garrison saw a trim officer in his middle to late forties – or perhaps a well-preserved fifty – wearing a _SS Obersturmbannführer's_ uniform. It was a good choice; the rank high enough to make most men wary of challenging him, but not so high as to cause comment. What hair showed under his precisely centred cap was iron grey, the nose and chin that jutted out from under it all sharp angles and straight lines.

A hawk, Garrison thought. Well, we aren't pigeons.

Müller walked into the tavern, stopped, looked about him, took a seat at a table with his back almost directly against Jaenicke, summoned a waiter with a peremptory finger, then tipped his chair back a little.

Though Garrison had given Simon and Jaenicke precise, if slightly varying, instructions, he would have given a great deal to be able to hear what was being said.

He had wagered Simon's freedom – probably his life – on his own judgement of von Staaden's motives and Gottlieb's value to the spycatcher's organisation.

Now, he held his breath and hoped.

 

It was as Actor had suspected: La Freccia was leading them to the villa where Rosa's family had lived all those years ago. Damn it, if they still lived there he was going to be recognised, and if he was recognised...

What the Hell was he going to do?

However, before they reached the villa, their guide stopped and ordered them to unload the mules.

Actor heaved a sigh of relief.

But perhaps that was premature. If they were going on into Pontedorato he was still in danger of recognition.

"What next?" he asked.

"We will leave the mules here. I will borrow a cart and some fruit or vegetables to camouflage your equipment. One of the farmhands will come with us. That will make us far less noticeable on the road."

"Won't the Germans search the cart?"

The woman shrugged.

"And where are you taking us?"

"To meet Major Garrison. Why, are you afraid?"

"I don't like relying on amateurs."

That, as he had expected, made her bridle. "Here, it is you who are the amateurs."

"She's proved her worth," Chief said, at the same time.

So that was where the wind blew. He couldn't say that he had much admiration for their taste – either of them – but at least it meant that Chief was no longer interested in Garrison, if he had ever been. It was one small comfort in an increasingly uncomfortable situation.

 

Once Müller was settled at the table, he leaned back in his chair. "Werner? Where's Rienhold?"

Both Jaenicke and Simon had been expecting that question.

"He's safe," Jaenicke said. "You heard his voice last night, remember?"

"With the partisans? Have they agreed to our bargain?"

"We were believed, given our credentials. The Allies have agreed to the bargain."

Müller heaved an audible sigh of relief. "So, what next?"

"We have to get _Herr_ von Staaden here," Jaenicke told him. "So we're going to arrange for the partisans to capture you, and catch _Herr_ von Staaden on the road when he—"

"But _Herr_ von Staaden is already here," Müller interrupted. " _Generalfeldmarschall_ Kesselring has demanded I be replaced and that _Herr_ von Staaden himself takes charge of the operations against the partisans. He arrived yesterday."

Jaenicke looked at Simon, who said, "This changes everything. Go back and wait for instructions. We'll find a way to prize von Staaden out of that 'fortress' of yours, never fear."

 

The contents of the mules' packs were quickly hidden in the cart, covered with a tarpaulin, then with a thick layer of oranges, aubergines and onions. A pair of oxen was harnessed in place, using yokes that must have been a century old. When Actor was a child, horses or mules might have been used, but horses and mules were in constant danger of being confiscated by the Germans – and no doubt the oxen would have been too, if they hadn't been needed for work that would eventually feed the German army.

The old man who accompanied them was unknown to Actor, though he kept looking oddly at him, then even more oddly at La Freccia, as if he somehow expected her to explain him.

Which she didn't. There was more than a hint of maliciousness her attitude to Actor, probably paying him back for the privilege of pawing her naked body.

Not that it wasn't a very attractive body, not that it hadn't been pleasant, and not that he would have been above taking whatever she might have offered.

But-

There was Garrison, who was waiting for him.

Was Rosa still waiting? Had she waited at all? Somehow, he doubted it.

And then there was La Freccia. If she was the age she looked, she would have been one of half a hundred children whose names he couldn't remember and who certainly wouldn't remember him. Even in a small town his disgrace would only have been a nine day's wonder.

He didn't dare be recognised, get involved. Garrison was depending on him. And he didn't need anyone else.

 

Jaenicke and Simon left the tavern first, only a few minutes after the conversation had ended. They both looked worried but, as far as Garrison could tell, were not followed.

Müller, on the other hand, ate a hearty meal. Garrison was watching him taste his brandy when Goniff came wriggling up out of the shaft. He was filthy, but grinning in triumph. "You're right, Warden. There's a passageway. Must've been maybe six feet square, but there's a lot of rubble there now. The air ain't as good as it could be, neither. I pushed up towards the HQ: there's a couple of stairwells start to lead down, but they're blocked. Looks like a professional job. Tons of masonry. Same at the end of the passageway. Just a blank wall."

"How far does the tunnel run?"

"Maybe sixty yards in that direction – though it feels like walking the whole bloody Circle Line. Not as far the other way. Reckon it stops at the town gate."

"So you can only get in here, and you can't get out anywhere," Casino pointed out. "You ain't going to get into Müller's HQ that way, Warden." He did not add, "Thank God," but his expression said it for him. He was having enough trouble keeping his eyes away from the drop to his left. 

"I don't intend to. Let's shift that stone back. We'll use the next hod of cement that comes up to secure it in place."

"Once that sets no-one'll be able to get in without a pneumatic drill or at least pickaxes," Casino pointed out.

"Right. That's exactly what we want."

Goniff looked at Casino. Casino shrugged and tapped his head significantly.

Garrison just smiled.

 

To Actor's relief they had turned off the main road before they reached Pontedorato and trekked up along a cart track that led, he knew, to an old charcoal burner's camp. All the useful wood had gone long ago and it had been disused even in his childhood. There were, though, lots of interesting holes in which a child could hide – or weapons be hidden.

That was probably La Freccia's plan.

He wondered if it was also Garrison's.

 

"Warden, I know that geezer." Goniff's voice was urgent.

Garrison left Casino to finish cementing the stones over the passageway back into place and went to look. "You do," he said grimly, watching the slender man in Italian Army uniform pausing to talk to an _SS_ guard at the entrance to the barracks. "When you last saw him, his name was Wilder. Now he's calling himself Andreoni."

"He'll recognise us for sure."

Even as Casino spoke, Fabio appeared from the shadows below them, hurrying across the square to intercept the spy. Thank God he'd told him about Wilder, Garrison thought. If he'd held silent—

" _Signore_ Branconi knows Wilder would recognise me. He's giving us a chance to get out of here." Garrison swung out onto the scaffolding. "Com'on. And keep your backs to Wilder. There's a good chance he won't recognise you. And stay between us. I can't claim the same privilege."

Even as they dropped the last few feet to the street, Goniff said, "Hey, Müller's on his way over 'ere from the pub."

"Christ!"

"Into the shadows." Garrison snapped quick orders in Italian to Fabio's workmen, two of whom went swarming up the ladders to take their place, then joined Goniff and Casino in the darkness under the wall. Seconds later they were behind the remains of the buttress, even as Fabio escorted Müller and Wilder to the base of the ladder.

"Thank Christ you ordered that hole filled in."

He'd known the Germans wouldn't be able to resist an inspection. Besides, that entry – or exit – from the tunnel was just too exposed.

"Okay, follow me and I'll show you the way to the safe house. And as far as you two are concerned, you've just arrived from the airfield. No mention of Branconi."

"Aw, Warden, would we?"

Casino, though, looked thoughtful and, uncharacteristically, said nothing.

 

"As I understood it," Actor said, as they packed equipment into a cave-like hole cut into the hillside, "the plan was that Chief and I stay with the equipment while you inform Major Garrison where we're hidden."

"That has changed," La Freccia stated. "You must come to the safe house to meet Major Garrison."

He was sure she was lying, yet could not have said why. Chief seemed to accept everything as gospel, but then Chief's view was coloured by sexual admiration, while his own...

Why was he so sure she was lying?

Was it just because he didn't want to go into Pontedorato?

"I still think it's wisest to stay here," he said.

"Major Garrison said nothing about wisdom."

Chief looked at Actor with real suspicion. "Warden's orders are we go," he said, as if that settled the matter. As for him, of course, it did.

But were they really Garrison's orders?

There was only one way to find out, much as he disliked it. Go and ask him.

 

Garrison listened to Jaenicke's and Simon's reports with interest, and relief. This had been the most dangerous part of the whole business. If Müller had decided to cut his losses and grab Simon, there would have been little he could have done. Certainly, Müller knew better than to let himself be snatched...

"So I told him we had to revise our plans and he was to wait for instructions."

"Great. That's why I wanted you there, Simon – in case that kind of decision had to be made."

"Von Staaden must've been the guy we saw arrive yesterday, Warden," said Casino, picking up his cue with aplomb.

"Yeah, all them _SS_ types was kow-towing all over the airfield."

"What are you going to do, Craig?" Jaenicke asked, after a moment's consultation with Gottlieb.

"Well, if Müller can't accept our invitation to visit us, we're just going to have to get him to invite us in."

 

Von Staaden leaned back in his chair, watching Müller pacing over linked finger, only barely concealing his amusement. It would, he thought, be good to have Krantz back. Müller was far too volatile, if clever and ruthless enough.

The _Führer_ would appreciate him, though, he thought. All the Aryan virtues, with the looks to match – when, of course, his hair wasn't dyed to blend in with the more usual local colours...

"We'll never trap them if they attack on an open road!" Müller exclaimed, whirling to face the spycatcher.

"They won't," von Staaden said. "That would be far too risky. Besides, it really is not Garrison's style. No, all this is a bluff; he does not trust ' _Kommandant_ Müller' and he may not trust Jaenicke and 'Gottlieb'. I suspect that today's meeting was a test. We are sure that the partisans have been watching the airfield. Garrison will know of yesterday's arrivals."

"Is that why you ordered that flummery?"

Von Staaden nodded. "If Garrison is here, he has that excessively devious mind I told you about. Even if he believes Jaenicke, he has to test Kommandant Müller. Which is why the Kommandant had to say that I was here. But if he does suspect Jaenicke and Krantz, he may also have seen beneath the surface to our second layer of deception."

"And if Krantz never got out of Germany, didn't reach Garrison...?"

"Then we rescue him and Jaenicke and take the opportunity to deal with these partisans that are giving Kesselring such heartache. But I am sure Garrison is here."

"To trap you."

"As I am here to trap him. And I have all the advantages; it is my ground, and he knows nothing of my trap."

"Unless Krantz or Jaenicke talked."

"Krantz gave no alarm code, and Krantz is my best agent. No, it is all going to plan."

Müller muttered something not meant to be heard, but von Staaden had very good ears. "That is what I thought in Switzerland." 

And perhaps that was reason enough to be wary.

 

**Chapter 13**

 

As they crossed the bridge into Pontedorato, Actor began to think that he had made the wrong decision and as they threaded the streets along an increasingly familiar track, he was sure of it.

Did La Freccia know who he was? If so, what was she up to? Trying to collect a reward from his father? Currying favour with the family...?

That would be a mistake, he was sure. For both of them.

Accordingly, he came to a stop in the middle of the street, only a hundred yards from his parents' door, and swung to face the woman. "That does it. I refuse to go another step with you until you tell me where we are going. And why."

"Where I tell you. Because I say so." La Freccia was pointing her ancient revolver straight at his chest.

"So, Garrison didn't send you. You're a German agent." It was meant to be a signal to Chief, but the switchblade didn't appear. Though the Indian's right hand was straight down at his side, concealing the knife in his hand, he did not throw it.

"You really working for the krauts?" he asked La Freccia.

"No! You can't believe that, Rainey."

"Then why've you got a gun on Actor?"

"Because he must go with me. You have to trust me in this, Rainey."

"I want to, Benedetta, but—"

"Believe me, this is necessary and right."

"Benedetta," Actor repeated. Benedetta. She would be the right age. And now he looked more closely he had to admit it was possible, though it was hard to equate this fierce partisan with the child he had taught to ride the old donkey, had carried tucked under one arm, had— "Bettina?"

"Alessandro," she acknowledged coldly.

"Huh? Alessandro?" Chief said, eyebrows raised.

"She is my sister," Actor stated. "Benedetta Tesauro. Bettina."

"Benedetta," repeated that lady, glaring at her brother.

"But—?"

"And my brother here, your friend," she spat the word, "ran away over fifteen years ago, leaving his pregnant wife of a few hours to face poverty and shame. He abandoned his family, has never even seen his son."

"I do not have a son. Or wife."

Chief considered. "Guess you do look kinda alike. What about Major Garrison?"

"He sent me to meet you. As soon as the family have dealt with Alessandro, I will take you to him." She made a little helpless gesture with her free hand that was suddenly, achingly familiar. "Please, Rainey. You know I cannot shoot you, but I will shoot Alessandro if you try to stop me. This I swear."

Chief looked about him. "This ain't the place t'talk about it. Let's get outa sight."

"Then walk straight ahead. I will tell you when to turn."

"Don't trust me either, huh?"

"I want to, Rainey, but this is family, you understand."

Chief shook his head. "Nope. Or... maybe." He looked at Actor. "Depends on which family."

So Chief hadn't given up on him entirely. And he was right about getting out of sight. Nor did he really want the Indian to kill Bettina.

Guess I'm going to have to con my way out.

 

At the door of Fabio's house, Garrison almost collided with its outgoing owner. "You seem to be in a hurry," he observed, suspicions resurfacing.

"You've met my sister-in-law, the infamous La Freccia? When she summons a family conference, it's as well not to be late."

"Benedetta? She's here?"

"So I've been told."

"She was supposed to contact me the instant she got into town," Garrison said. "I need to see her urgently. I'll come with you."

"But—"

"Come on, come on. You said you didn't want to be late." There was an uneasy suspicion in Garrison's mind. A family conference? Why would Benedetta call a family conference? Actor? Had she recognised him at last, perhaps brought him here so the other members of the family could confirm her suspicions? It would certainly explain why she had not contacted him. And if she had brought Actor and possibly Chief here, instead of leaving them outside the town, it would compromise their safety. He couldn't take the chance, would have to put a stop to this 'family conference', get Actor and Chief out of harm's way.

Fabio, having decided not to argue with a man half a foot taller, seventy pounds heavier and more than ten years younger than he was, led the way along the street, turned a corner, and headed for one of the largest family houses Garrison had yet seen in Pontedorato, though, like many others, it did not seem to have been painted for years.

As they reached the door they could hear raised voices. Fabio paused in mid-step, frowning, as Garrison recognised Actor's rich baritone. Despite everything, his heart lifted.

He shoved Fabio gently in the small of his back, sending him through into the garden beyond, and followed, closing the door behind him and clicking the latch into place.

Benedetta was pointing a gun at Actor, who was staring at Fabio, who was staring back with an almost identical expression of dismay.

"Fabio?"

"Sandro?"

"What the Hell is going on here?" Garrison demanded of Chief, who was sitting on the edge of a – dry – fountain, whittling a stick with his blade, plainly taking no part in the proceedings.

Chief nodded his head at Benedetta. "She says Actor here ran out on his wife an' kid."

"And what does he say about it?"

"Yeah, well, he says it ain't his kid."

"So you aren't taking sides?"

"Nope."

"I see," Garrison said grimly. Both Actor and Fabio were looking at him with all too familiar "save me" expressions. Garrison turned to Benedetta. "There's no time for this now. You are first and foremost a partisan – and we need both you and Alessandro if we are going to defeat the Germans."

"I am truly sorry, Major, but, as Alessandro knows, family business comes first." She gestured with the gun.

Garrison's eyes flickered to Chief – and saw the Indian's indecision.

"By all means, then," he said easily. "Let's sort this out and then get on with the job."

"You are not involved in this," Benedetta protested.

"Alessandro is under my command," Garrison stated, letting steel show. "As you are supposed to be. He is also my friend. We can send Chief—"

"Rainey comes with us!"

"Then so do I."

Benedetta hissed with rage, and prodded Actor with the gun. "Go on."

He shrugged, and stepped through the door. Chief followed. Garrison made an "after you" gesture at Fabio, who raised eyes to heaven, muttered something that sounded like "stupid women" but capitulated.

Garrison brought up the rear.

 

Actor was wondering why Garrison was letting Benedetta get away with this. He had seen him disarm dangerous men with a single skilled blow. So why did Benedetta still have that ridiculous oversized handgun, which would probably snap her wrist if she fired it?

Or does he think I lied to him about Gina?

The door in front of him led to the big kitchen, where his mother had always presided.

He pushed it open, took a deep breath, and stepped into the herb and bread scented dimness.

Three women waited for them: a distinguished-looking grey-haired lady, sitting by the fireplace; a petite, very dark woman of about his own age at the table; and a sharp-featured, gamine girl of no more than twenty one or two standing with leaning back against the dresser, arms folded against her breasts.

The oldest Actor knew at once, had been expecting: his mother. The way her eyes closed in denial suggested she'd recognised him too. The petite women was too like Fabio to be anyone but Gina... 

"Giorgio!" the unknown girl gasped, hands flying to her mouth, all the colour draining from her face.

"No!" Benedetta, almost as white-faced, stepped forward, forgetting she was supposed to be keeping a gun on Actor.

Who said, " _Signorina_ , I am not Giorgio. As you can see. Damn, it Bettina, who is she?"

"Your brother's widow," Benedetta snapped.

Actor felt Garrison's hand touch his arm, knew it for support and that only his lover perhaps realised the effort he needed to control himself.

"Giorgio is dead?" he asked, his voice as steady as all his conman's skill could make it.

"In North Africa."

The Allies killed him. It could even have been the Warden – though not me, thank Heaven.

His mother found her voice: "How dare you come here, Alessandro? If your father was still alive—"

Father dead too. Dear God.

"I assure you, Momma, it wasn't my idea."

"I brought him—" Benedetta began, only to be interrupted by Gina.

"Momma, all that matters is that he is here. He's come home to us. Alessandro, please—" Gina started forwards, but was stopped by Actor's furious roar.

"Don't call her 'Momma'. You have no right."

Gina looked as if she had been slapped, but Benedetta sprang to her defence. "She has more right that you! You aren't part of this family anymore. Papa disinherited you the day you left."

"Do you think I care?"

"You may have run out on Gina but she's still your wife. She needs you to look after her an—"

"She is not my wife," Actor snarled.

"You married her," their mother said quietly.

"A forced marriage is no marriage at all. And it was never consummated."

"Raping me before doesn't count, I suppose?" Gina screeched. "Make him acknowledge Tommaso, Bettina."

Actor looked blank. "Tommaso?"

"Yes. Tommaso. Your son."

"Like Hell he is. He's your son. Not mine," Actor turned away from Gina in contempt to speak directly to his mother. "That is what I told Papa fifteen years ago that is what I am telling all of you now. As for that bitch Gina, she is a liar and has always been a liar. Not to mention her fondness for fascists—

"How dare you say such things?" Benedetta exploded.

"I say them because they are the truth. Look at her. Does she seem like someone who has just met her long-lost lover?"

Garrison had been looking and could feel only pity for a weak woman whose world was shattering about her – but it was plain that Actor did not. There had been too many years brooding on the wrong done to him, on the lies and the betrayal.

Damn it, Gina had repeated that story so often she probably believed it herself by now – and her son would certainly believe that Actor was his father, perhaps had nourished dreams of meeting him, impressing him, being loved by him.

It was a scenario he recognised all too well.

But, however sorry he felt for them, his own loyalties were clear. There was only one player in this drama that he ought to – must – support.

He hardened his heart. "These accusations are getting us nowhere," he stated, "Why don't we simply look at the evidence—"

Suddenly he was the cynosure of hostile eyes.

"What evidence?" Benedetta demanded. "Someone is lying – and my father used to say that Alessandro—"

"The obvious evidence," Garrison interrupted her, before she could get into her stride. "The child. The young man as he must be now. If he is indeed Alessandro's son, it should be easy to trace the family resemblance."

Gina and Fabio exchanged what Garrison took to be worried glances. Actor looked at him with hope.

It was Benedetta who said, "Tommaso takes after his mother."

Garrison lifted his eyebrows. "In everything? Surely any boy shows some trace of his father's family. Look at _La Signora_ Tesauro. Both Benedetta and Alessandro have her eyes. She is over medium height, her children are both much taller—"

"The Tesauros have always been tall," Actor said. "And if his widow could mistake me for Giorgio, then so was he." He looked very hard at Fabio. "The Branconis, on the other hand..."

It was a threat, and Fabio was obviously aware of the fact. He, at least, had not forgotten his childhood sins, and that they could totally destroy him and his sister. The church might overlook many sins in a financial pillar of the community, but not incest.

"Would you shame our family even further?" the old lady asked bitterly.

"There is no shame on the Tesauros," Actor replied. "Whatever I have done, it has not been as Alessandro Tesauro. The first time I used the name since I left was a few weeks ago and that... was nothing shameful."

"So now you come back to steal the factory from Tommaso," Benedetta accused.

Garrison grasped his opportunity: "He came back because I ordered it. Damn it, there's nothing left of the factory to inherit. Even if there was, there's is one thing you're forgetting. If Alessandro has been disinherited, so have his heirs. Even if you believe Gina, it is Giorgio's son who will inherit, not Tommaso."

There was a stunned pause. No-one had considered that, not even Actor, who smiled grimly to himself as he waited to see if any of his family was capable of dealing with Garrison's logic.

It was Fabio who broke the silence: "That's not particularly important. Tommaso is my heir. Rosa and I are not likely to have children now. He and Gina will not want for anything if we can help it."

Rosa?

"You married Rosa?" Actor grated, taking a step towards him, wondering if Garrison would let him strangle the man. "Was that the real reason you lied about me? So that you could steal her—?"

"Steal her?" For the first time Fabio showed signs of anger, his skin darkening and his voice rising. "She never cared for you in the least."

"Didn't she? We could always ask her." Actor's eyes were glinting. He was ready to go on with this fight all night, and enjoy every second of it.

"Actor!" It was a rebuke.

Actor whirled to face Garrison, met his cool eyes, and was suddenly reminded of how lucky he had been – and how relieved he was that his life had gone as it had.

He had Garrison.

Fabio had Rosa, but no legitimate child.

Gina had no-one, only her brother's bastard son.

He suspected he was the lucky one.

"No-one would want me as a husband anyway," he said, with a shrug. "I am not... respectable."

"I thought that was your charm," Garrison retorted, letting a smile touch his lips.

"And I don't want the damn factory."

"Even if you did, the factory is rubble," Garrison said. He paused to let it sink in, then added, "but I can get it rebuilt and the contracts to go with it."

"How can you promise that?" Silvia asked, wide-eyed. She, at least, had much to gain from today's events. With both Actor and Tommaso out of the way, her son was the only possible male heir.

"My Uncle Andrew is the boss at Ross Aviation. They used to be a good customer of your factory and if the buildings and machines are no longer there, a lot of the expertise will be, even after the war. I think I can persuade him to invest in rebuilding."

"You promise this?" Actor's mother asked. Her knuckles were white as she gripped the arm of her chair. Someone else who had a good deal to gain.

"If Alessandro and I leave here alive, with the mission accomplished, I guarantee it."

Garrison noticed Fabio nod and squeeze Gina's arm warningly when she would have protested.

Yeah, he thought, I expected he'd be bright enough to cut his losses.

"Gina is Alessandro's wife," Benedetta insisted, but she sounded less certain.

"That's for the courts to settle. After the war. If Gina wants to pursue the matter. And if she really wants a ruling on her son's parentage." He saw Fabio flinch, and knew that the thrust had gone home. Gina might have talked herself into believing the Authorised Version of the events of fifteen years ago – but her brother hadn't. "But if you do, you won't get the factory, at least, not from Ross. The offer only holds good if you drop this vendetta and help us both."

"We will," said Actor's mother, "need to discuss this. Family only."

"Fine," Garrison said easily. "I'll wait in the sitting room for your decision. Chief, stand watch outside the door." He nodded courteously to the women, and made his exit.

Actor took one look at his mother's face – and followed his lover.

His choice had been made many years ago but he wasn't just running away anymore. He belonged elsewhere.

 

With the door closed, and Actor and Garrison were alone for the first time since they had exchanged a hurried kiss in England, a subjective lifetime ago. Actor wanted, desperately, to continue where they had left off, but Garrison's expression deterred him. There were questions he needed to ask, too, and didn't dare, not with that angry frown between Garrison's brows and the storm lurking in the depths of his North Sea eyes.

So it was Garrison who broke the silence, his voice shaking: "Damn you. When I joined the Army, I promised myself that the one thing I'd never do was to trade on my family's money or reputation—"

"Craig!" Actor caught his shoulders. "Did I ask you to do that? Did I even know you could do it?"

Garrison shrugged him off. "I wouldn't have done it for anyone else."

"You would have done it for Hitler himself if it meant getting the job done," Actor retorted. He stared hard at Garrison, judging whether he could ask his questions. What he saw reassured him. "You mean this wasn't a con? Andrew Ross really is your uncle?"

"Yes."

Actor drew a sharp breath. "Then what relation are you to his sister, the pioneer aviator, Kirstin Ross?"

"She was my mother."

Actor sat down and began to laugh.

"What's so damn funny?" Garrison demanded, hurt.

Actor sobered. "When I was a little boy," he said, "your mother was my heroine. I had her picture – on a postcard my father had got for me specially – in a frame beside my bed. Apparently I told my parents I was going to marry her when I grew up; so in a strange way, _caro_ , you were my first love as well as my last. I don't remember that. What I do remember is seeing the few paragraphs in the newspaper that said she was dead. They didn't use her married name. I never knew she had one. Not the sort of thing a kid takes much notice of really. I had no idea she was your mother."

"It wasn't in my dossier?" Garrison asked, grinning.

It was going to be all right. Relief shook Actor from head to toe, but he kept his voice light. "Just your father's initial, as next of kin. How on earth did he meet her?"

"In 1917, she and my uncle Andrew had set up an aircraft factory in England – perhaps factory is too grand a word; airplanes in those days were craftsman built – to make fighters for the Royal Flying Corps. She used to ferry warplanes to the Front Lines."

"Yes. I know she did that. There was a lot of outrage about it in Italy, though I didn't understand it at the time. It wasn't ladylike conduct at all."

Garrison chuckled. "The guns were always loaded too, though the one time she got to shoot down a Hun they wouldn't credit her with the kill. Anyhow, Father came over with the American Expeditionary Force. He was a volunteer, but because he came from a 'good' family and was well educated, naturally he was commissioned. It's why he hates the Army so much; his experiences there soured him on the whole idea of the military. But he met my mother and fell head over heels in love. They married there and then – 1918, before the war was over. There was less than a year of peace before Mother died. I don't remember her at all. Mom – Emma – it was years before they even told me she wasn't my real mother, and even longer before I believed it."

"Maybe she didn't want to believe it either. She does love you, Craig. Almost as much as I do."

Garrison's expression had softened so much it was almost unrecognisable. "Alessandro..." He reached out.

Until Actor held Garrison in his arms he hadn't realised how scared he had been for him, how much even so short a separation had hurt. Then he turned up his face, they kissed fiercely, and the separation might never have occurred at all.

 

The atmosphere in the kitchen was far less agreeable.

"Don't you see what's happening?" Benedetta was shouting. "Don't you see, Fabio? Alessandro will just walk away again. And what about Tommaso?"

Her mother's expression was ice and iron. "We will do what is best of the family, girl. Do you wish to live in poverty?"

"No, but—"

"Then be silent!"

"Oh, do what you like." Benedetta stormed out of the room – and ran directly into Chief's arms.

He set her back on her feet gently. "You gonna tell me what's the matter now?"

"You know. You were there."

Chief shook his head. "You gotta explain what was goin' on. You was all yabbering in Italian. I don't understand more than a few words."

"Alessandro is wriggling out of his responsibilities again. With the help of your Major Garrison, who is bribing my mother and Silvia. I don't know why Gina and Fabio are going along with it."

"Maybe they know he's tellin' the truth."

Bettina jerked out of his grip. "I thought you were on my side!"

"We're all on your side. If Major Garrison's promised somethin' t' help you, he don't lie. Not to people like you."

"Alessandro deserted us. Deserted Gina and Tommaso. He didn't even recognise _me_. Where was he when we needed him?"

Chief opened his mouth to say, "Prison," but decided against it. As far as he knew, Actor had spent rather less time behind bars than he had himself, despite being eleven years the elder. "He couldn't know you needed him. Seems to me your mother don't want to see him even now."

"Tommaso does. And Tommaso is his son."

"Is he?"

"Even you don't believe me!" It was a cry of pain.

"Ain't something you can be sure on. You believe what you bin told. I trust the Warden – Major Garrison. He believes your brother."

"If Alessandro's telling the truth, why didn't he stay?"

Chief shrugged. "Sometimes it's easier t'run. We all got things we don't want to remember. Don't think my family would welcome me, neither."

"I would have welcomed Alessandro... I missed him so much, Rainey. We would all have been so much happier if he'd stayed with Gina, even if Tommaso isn't his son."

Chief lifted her chin with his fingers. "Y'd ask him to live a lie?"

"Oh, Rainey, I wish I knew." Then she was in his arms, and Chief began to wonder if maybe there would be another family who might welcome him after all.

 

Garrison looked round the kitchen with approval. He was glad that both Actor's mother and Gina had refused to take part in the operation, though he knew they would have to keep an eye on the latter, who might just be tempted to betray them. That was another reason for getting Fabio as deeply involved as possible. He doubted that she would put her brother at risk.

He said: "Alessandro will command this side of the operation, but we're going to need all of you – including you, _Signora_ Tesauro, and _Signore_ Branconi."

"Please." Silvia leaned forward in her chair. "Since Giorgio died I have wanted to help fight the Germans, but Bettina was determined that she should be the only one to do that. And someone had to look after Momma Tesauro and Gina."

"You had a child to consider," Benedetta said. "You still do."

"Silvia will be in no danger," Garrison promised. "I simply want her to make sure that Wilder – the man you know as Andreoni – is witness to a little conversation I want him to overhear. Now, listen carefully, this is what you have do."

As Garrison carefully explained his plan, Benedetta's eyes grew wider and wider. Fabio pursed his lips and began to whistle almost silently to himself. Only Silvia seemed unsurprised. Perhaps she thought the partisans cooked up something this complicated every day.

"That's certainly up to your usual standard," Actor stated, stubbing out his cigarette. "But there is one problem. We had a little accident coming here. The mortar is at bottom of a lake about twenty miles away."

"Shit," Garrison said, with deceptive mildness. 

Chief shifted uncomfortably. "Cain't we get Ted to drop some real bombs?"

"Ted hasn't got any real bombs. Even if he had, he couldn't drop them quickly enough to maintain the illusion that the HQ is under attack by a whole squadron, or accurately enough to avoid knocking down large parts of the town. They have to think they're being bombed by a squadron, not just one man – and if a lucky shot brings Ted down, the whole plan falls through. We have to find another way."

"Let me get this straight," Actor said. "You need the illusion of an air raid – a night raid. And we have to hit Müller's HQ with a series of explosions inside the walls, yes?"

"Yes."

"I may have the answer. Fabio, do you remember when we were instructed on the traditions of the Roman Legions and the day when we managed to scare the shit out of Vasari before he even got out of bed."

"Oh." Fabio said. He began to grin. "I remember."

"We used your father's carpenters' tools."

"I have much better tools now, and craftsmen. In fact, Goniff and Casino are – or were – sleeping in the workshop."

"What the Hell are you two talking about?" Garrison demanded.

"Fabio and I were in the GIL, just like everyone our age. The Nazis modelled the Hitler Youth on it. We didn't like our troop leader very much, so one day we delivered quantities of filth into his camp from about a quarter of a mile away. He never did find out how. Give us a day and we'll deliver explosives just the way you want them," Actor told Garrison, his eyes twinkling. "But we'll need Captain Machar."

"I'll send him over. But only if, right now, you tell me exactly what you intend to do."

 

Actor remembered the Branconi house well; he had spent almost as much time there as a child as he had in his own home.

Fabio hustled them through quickly to the workshops in the ex-stable block, casting uneasy glances up at his house, which had had some additions since Actor's day. He was not sure he approved of the modernisation but was given no chance to take a closer look.

"You'll sleep here," he said. "As you can see, the equipment is adequate."

"More than adequate," Actor agreed. He hadn't touched carpenter's tools since he was sixteen, but no doubt his hands would remember.

Chief and Benedetta were looking at him uneasily, probably thinking he was going to ask them to do some of the work. As he might. Chief was good with his hands—

"Fabio," a clear, all too familiar, voice said from behind them. Actor turned, just for an instant not marrying the well-remembered, still-young voice with the mature beauty before him. "You have a meeting with _Signore_ Bossi at eleven," Rosa continued, in Italian, "and Danilo has been asking to see you. His cousin's farm has been destroyed in the fighting, and he wants to know—" She stopped in mid-flight, her eyes no longer on her husband but on Actor.

Who said nothing, though he felt a sneaking relief. The last thing he wanted or needed was a woman nagging him about his responsibilities.

Garrison didn't do that. Well, not much.

So he kept his face bland, said nothing, and refused to meet Rosa's accusing eyes.

"I'll be along in a moment," Fabio said finally. "These people will be staying in the workshop, _cara_."

"And they'll want feeding, no doubt." Rosa had rallied with courage. Probably she still wasn't completely sure of Actor's identity.

Benedetta rushed into the dangerous pause. "Oh Rosa, it's so good to see you. And I am looking forward so much to your cooking. This is Chief. He is a Red Indian – and such a handsome one, no?"

Chief, hearing his name , but not understanding any other word, smiled fleetingly, and went back to his pose of alert nobility by the door.

"And the other one?"

"He is called 'Actor'."

Actor bowed and muttered, " _Signora_ ," in an accent owing more to Goniff than his own local education.

Rosa gave him a scorching look. "I will fetch food," she said, with dignity, and left.

Fabio was watching Actor as if he expected a physical attack. Well, perhaps he had a right, considering what had happened the last time they met.

"You've been doing remarkably well at being my second-in-command," Garrison had said. "Don't blow it now."

"Fabio," Actor said, "as far as I am concerned, the past is the past. I am here because Major Garrison needs me here, no other reason. When the mission is over, I will leave."

"And I will be left to pick up the pieces. Why couldn't you let well enough alone?"

"I am not responsible for Bettina's impulsiveness," Actor pointed out, with a glare at his sister. "If it wasn't for her, I'd probably never have seen any of you, just done my job and left." But he could not resist adding: "There is an expression in English: 'Your chickens have come home to roost.' It means that your sins will eventually catch up with you."

"I don't see what chickens have got to do with it."

"Something to do with the ones that have been eating the neighbours' corn, perhaps," Actor responded, his expression grim.

There was a pause. "Sandro..." Fabio said hesitantly.

"I have my own life, Fabio – my own regrets, my own friends, my own love. There is no point in my betraying you, unless those things are threatened. And you wouldn't do that, would you?"

"Do you have any children?" Fabio asked.

"None that I know of."

"Tommaso has been brought up to believe that you're his father."

"That is his problem. And yours. I simply could not care less."

Fabio took a step backwards. "You've changed."

"I've grown up." Actor did not feel like mentioning how recently he thought the final step into maturity had taken place.

I jumped... and Craig caught me.

"Look," he went on, "this is your chance to do something really important, for yourself and for Italy. Help us, and we'll call it quits."

Fabio took a deep breath. "Your word on it?"

"My word." Of all the people in the world, only Fabio might still accept that – apart from the Warden, naturally.

"Let's get to work."

 

Garrison, meanwhile, was back at the safe house. The first thing he did was to send Simon off to Fabio's workshops, with no comment other than, "You're needed there."

Simon wasn't used to such treatment. "By whom? And for what?"

"You'll find out."

With a scorching glare at Garrison that promised retribution, Simon went.

Gottlieb and Jaenicke were curious too, but Garrison had an answer for them. "He's gone to arrange our escape route. What I want you to do, _Herr_ Gottlieb, is to make a phone call to your friend _Herr_ Müller. We've got to get von Staaden out of that building. This is how we're gonna do it."

 

The air was resinous with woodscent and whirring with the buzz of lathes when Simon arrived. He nodded to Fabio and shook hands warmly with Actor. "I'm delighted to see you. Someone's got to keep a rein on Garrison – and I've never felt capable."

"Nor have I, but perhaps, between us, we might restrain him to a canter, not a mad gallop."

Simon chuckled. "I'd be happier with a walk. His shoulder's giving him gyp."

"Badly?" Actor asked, alarmed.

"With him, who can tell? Most of the time, he doesn't let anything show – but it gave out on him last night in a singularly inappropriate place."

"Damn. I knew he wasn't fit, but just try to get him to act sensibly—" Actor caught hold of his tongue. This wasn't supporting Garrison. "Where was he?"

"Climbing the town wall."

"Well, we'd better keep him on the ground in future."

"Sounds good to me," Simon said fervently. Then, looking about him at the signs of industry, "What's all this then?"

"Didn't Garrison tell you?"

"Uhuh. Didn't even tell me you were here. Is Chief with you?"

"He should be back in a couple of hours. Meanwhile, we have an interesting project. What do you know about Roman and Medieval military engineering...?"

 

Simon was deep in technical discussion with Actor and Fabio when Chief and Benedetta arrived, looking very self satisfied.

"You've found it?" Actor asked.

"Right where the Warden thought it would be. Gonna need explosive, Captain."

"Want me to come with you and take a look tonight? So long as I don't have to climb any more roofs," Simon added hurriedly.

"Don't know about roofs, but you'd better not be claustr'phobic, Dad.

"Meanwhile, what about the materiel you brought in, Actor?"

"It's buried outside town. Benedetta will show you where."

 

Later that same night, when everyone should have been asleep, Garrison roused Wireless with a touch on the shoulder. They did not make a lot of noise as they set up the powerful R/T set, but they made it quite close to where Gottlieb was sleeping.

Garrison leaned over Wireless's shoulder. "Are they listening?"

"Sure t' be." Wireless chuckled as he clicked switches.

Both were, indeed, hoping that Gottlieb – or Jaenicke, it didn't matter – was awake enough to appreciate their performance. Of course, there was also a real point in what they were about to do, even if the Germans were sleeping soundly.

At the third repetition of their call sign, a voice, distorted enough so that its overdone imitation of Simon's accent was not noticeable, said, "Yellow bird receiving," from the air.

"Code word Eagle. 2230. Map blue. Co-ordinates N42 62 T32 86."

"2230. Blue. N42 62 T32 86. Wilco."

Wireless switched off. "It's tomorrow neet, then, Major?"

"With the best help the RAF can provide."

"Easy as pie," Wireless said, his accent present but perhaps a trifle less thick than normal. "Colonel must've pulled every string to get 617 assigned."

"They're the only guys who could do it without killing half the town. Get some sleep, Wireless. It's gonna be a long day."

 

**Chapter 14**

 

The next morning, Fabio had to lurk behind the Tesauros' door for nearly an hour before Andreoni arrived. Which was his signal to shove the door open. With relief, he did so. " _Maggiore_ , how nice to see you. No, go right in. Maybe you can do something about Silvia's mood."

Once in the street, with the door safely closed behind Andreoni – Wilder, was it? – he waved at the closed shutters above.

Behind those shutters, Chief saw the wave and dived across the room. From the door, he, in his turn, waved to Benedetta, who leaped down the stairs three at a time to where Silvia was waiting. As she landed, she started talking, loudly, "Do not be so awkward, Silvia. As your elder sister, I am telling you to take little Giorgio and Momma – and Gina and Tommaso too – to visit Rosa's parents at the villa."

"Not unless I know the reason."

"Isn't my word enough?"

"Oh, come on, Bettina. I'm not a child anymore. Or is it that you do not trust me?"

"I do not trust _Maggiore_ Andreoni," Benedetta stated, with sincerity.

"Well, I don't think he trusts you, either," Silvia retorted, with equal truth. "Anyhow, I will not tell him if you do not want me to."

"Well..." Benedetta hesitated.

"Come on, Bettina. Please."

"Well... Oh, all right, little sister. It is no more than a rumour, but there is a possibility that the Allies are going bomb the town again."

"Oh, poof!" Silvia's snort echoed louder than her voice. "Rumour! Why should the Allies do such a thing?"

"The Germans—"

"Poof to the Germans!"

"Do you want to take the risk? With your baby? Even if it is just a rumour..."

"All right. Momma can take them. She'll enjoy fussing over Giorgio. I have far too much to do here."

"You mean _Maggiore_ Andreoni," Benedetta's voice had taken on a note of distinct disapproval.

"That, dearest sister, is my business."

The two women, hearing the outer door close softly, grinned at each other, and Silvia skipped off to wait for the knock that would announce Andreoni's official arrival.

 

Actor had found unexpected pleasure in rediscovering old skills, in the turn of the lathe, the lock-curls of wood littering the floor, the neat hand-clasp of a good joint, the smell of glue and sawn wood.

Chief, Bettina and Fabio were away helping in the next part of Garrison's plan, while Simon was somewhere on the scrounge, but Actor didn't mind being left alone. He hummed along with the machinery, sang love songs from the Opera, the Movies, his childhood.

Lost in a daydream and the pleasure of his own voice, he didn't realise he wasn't alone.

"Alessandro." It was Rosa's voice. Well, he'd never believed she had been fooled.

"Actor," he said gently, without lifting his head from his task. "There is less danger for everyone in the name."

There was a long pause, then, "I understand," a very small voice stated.

Actor turned, to see the woman walking swiftly for the door. "Rosa."

She halted, her back to him.

"Are you happy, the way things turned out?"

Now Rosa did turn. Her chin was up. "Fabio is a good man. I am sorry we have no children, but he is still a good man. Respectable."

"Well, I am certainly not that."

Rosa did not move. Her eyes, dark and as beautiful as they had ever been, were fixed on his face. The freshness of youth was gone, but there was maturity and intelligence there that was just as attractive. "When I first heard about you and Gina," she said, "I could not believe it. Then you ran. Without a word to me. What was I to think?"

The words stung. "I couldn't involve you. You were just a child—"

"Who would have followed you to the ends of the Earth." She turned away, but not before Actor had seen the tears start in those wonderful eyes.

"Rosa... I'm sorry. That's all I can say. We can't change the past – or the people we were then, or now. But I did love you then."

"And now?"

Simon bustled in, saying, "Rosa, I think I've found what I wanted. Could you get—" He stopped, sensing the atmosphere without knowing its cause. "Am I interrupting something?"

Rosa collected herself before Actor could. "Of course not. Come and show me."

Actor was still staring at the closed door when Benedetta and Chief, in high glee, came bounding through it to announce the success of their part of Garrison's plan.

 

Gathered in the charcoal burners' clearing where they had left the explosives, Actor, Fabio and Simon regarded the fruits of their labour with satisfaction.

Fabio had called on the advice of craftsmen, and Simon had proved to be an invaluable source of information and ideas, so that instead of the twisted sinew the catapult would have originally used as motive power, it was now fitted with powerful steel springs. The result might not be a strictly historically accurate reconstruction – no-one would ever know – but it was smaller and more powerful than its ancient equivalent.

The worst part had, in fact, been getting it out here, a process that had involved all of them, a handcart, the most docile of Benedetta's mules, and a lot of sweat – mainly of fear as they passed the German guards.

Fabio grinned companionably at Actor. "Maybe we ought to test it, Sandro?"

"We'll need to get the range," Actor admitted. "And ammunition, of course."

"We still have the mortar shells," Chief pointed out.

"Yes. But nothing to fire them."

"Don't see why that thing won't lob them. If it lobs anything."

"Too heavy and the wrong shape," Simon said briskly. "Don't worry. I got Rosa to find me something much more suitable. And there're enough of them for you to run your tests."

 

The tests completed, Actor, Chief, Benedetta and Fabio left Simon to his task and, with much profanity, moved the catapult into the thickly wooded sloped on the outside bend of the river, opposite Müller's HQ.

Leaving Fabio to rebuild it with Chief's help and Benedetta's advice, Actor went back to the charcoal burners' clearing, where Simon was sitting with the tools of his trade at his feet, humming gently to himself.

Actor squatted beside him, and lifted one of the almost globular terracotta pots stopped up with corks and beeswax that surrounded him, weighing it in his hands. 

"Careful with that," Simon warned him. "It's set to go off on impact."

"How many have you made for us?"

"An even twenty. That should be enough." Simon laid down the pot he had been working on. "I'll help you get them down to the river. You found a good spot?"

"Not bad. Near enough to the top of the slope to help us with the elevation. Fabio has had to scare off a number of exploring kids. We'll lie low until dark, when the guards on the roof won't be able to see any movement in the trees."

"Good. Let's move these down there. I'm almost sorry I won't be around to see the fun."

 

In late afternoon, Goniff and Casino came hurrying in to the safe house, Simon at their heels. They were closeted with Garrison for about half an hour, then the Major called the whole team together for an urgent briefing.

"We're bringing the operation forward," he opened. "Frazini's men have captured a German staff car and an _Abwehr_ officer called Klimmermann," Garrison had long since become an adept liar; 'Klimmermann''s papers and gear had arrived along with Actor and Chief, and the staff car had been procured by Casino and Goniff, whose activities in this area over the last year probably merited an extra production line somewhere in the Reich. "I'll be Klimmermann, Goniff will drive, and Casino will guard our prisoners."

"Prisoners?"

"That's where you and _Herr_ Gottlieb come in, Werner."

"But—"

Garrison waved him to silence. "I've got it all worked out. Klimmermann is going to claim to have captured von Staaden's two defectors. His stated plan is to take them to Kesselring – but first of all he's gonna take the opportunity to crow over Müller, who he'll invite to come with him to the Field Marshal's HQ. Of course, there's no way von Staaden's going to let me take you two to Kesselring, so he'll almost certainly invite us in – spider to fly. It's just possible I might be able to talk von Staaden into accompanying us himself, with Müller's help. If not, we're going to have to use other methods of persuasion. Let's go over the alternatives. We need to be sure of what we're going to do in each possible situation."

"Are we to be armed?" Gottlieb asked.

"Naturally. They'll be so worried about saving face – not letting it get to Kesselring and thence to Hitler – that they're not at all likely to consider that Klimmermann and his men are on the same side as the two 'traitors' they've just captured. That'll give us a real advantage when we act as a team. Besides, I have a little diversion planned for tonight if we get into real difficulties."

"What if they check on Klimmermann?" Jaenicke asked.

"Simon will intercept the call. We can't take the chance that Klimmermann has been reported missing."

"But Müller thinks we are going to arrange for von Staaden to be summoned to see Kesselring."

Garrison expelled twin streams of smoke from his nostrils, and grinned: "So he will be. I'm sure _Herr_ Müller can cope."

No-one disagreed with him.

 

It was as the evening was drawing to a close that the plan went into operation. Goniff drove the stolen staff car. Garrison, in the uniform of a member of the _Abwehr_ as senior as his youth would decently allow, lounged in the front seat beside him. Casino kept armed guard over two rough-looking prisoners, bound at the wrists: Gottlieb and Jaenicke. Those ropes were deceptive, looped, unknotted and easily freed. Both men also carried concealed and loaded weapons.

 _"Ich bin Oberst Klimmermann von der Abwehr. Meine Papiere."_ As these were examined, Garrison gestured with a thumb towards the prisoners in rear. _"Ich glaube, diese Männer gehörten zu Herrn von Staadens Organisation. Veräter. Wir bringen sie zum Verhör ins Hauptquartier des Generalfeldmarschalls. Wurden Sie Herrn Müller meine Grüße ausrichten und sich erkundigen, ob er mich begleiten möchte?"_

There was a pause. The _SS_ uniformed guards plainly didn't like taking orders from the _Wehrmacht_ , even from an _Abwehr_ Colonel, but they plainly didn't see what else they could do. Casino's gun was much in evidence, and there would be no point in a pitched battle with members of their own forces. After a brief conference, one of them disappeared into the interior, no doubt to inform Müller that he'd better act quickly if he wanted to stop Klimmermann delivering Gottlieb and Jaenicke into Kesselring's hands.

Garrison produced a cigarette, which Goniff lit, and settled down to wait for the reaction.

 

In the Kommandant's office, the _Scharführer_ was reporting what had happened at the gate.

"One of the prisoners was _Herr_ Krantz. He seemed quite calm. I am sure he recognised me, and sure that he signalled to me to comply with this _Oberst_ Klimmermann's orders."

Von Staaden let out a sigh that seemed to have settled in his lungs since Krantz and Jaenicke had vanished into silence. "Good. Good. I knew Lieutenant Garrison would not disappoint me." He turned back to the guard. "This officer – _Oberst_ Klimmermann – is to come up alone to report to Kommandant Müller. If he shows reluctance, tell him that _Herr_ von Staaden wishes to see him before he takes the prisoners to the Field Marshal."

"At once, sir."

"And you and your men are to hold yourself ready to do whatever _Herr_ Krantz commands."

When the _Scharführer_ had gone, von Staaden steepled his fingers and regarded his three man audience with satisfaction. "It will be very interesting to see how Garrison intends to play this. On the surface, he simply expects Müller to deliver von Staaden into his hands. But he may suspect Müller of complicity. Then there was our little charade at the airfield. Those are still our roles. Let us see whether he has been fooled and you, 'Major Andreoni', had better get out of sight."

 

After a gratifyingly short time, the _Scharführer_ returned and saluted Garrison smartly. _"Sie sollen allein hinauf gehen. Ich werde Sie eskortieren."_

_"Dann wüscht Herr Müller nicht, mich zu begleiten?"_

_"Nicht jetzt, wo Herr von Staaden angekommen ist."_

That was what Garrison had wanted to hear more than anything. _"Ah, der Spionenfänger persönlich. Nun, dieses Mal haben wir seine Spion für ihn gefangen."_ He climbed out of the staff car, told Goniff and Casino: _"Sie warten hier und bewachen sie,"_ then followed the _Scharführer_ into the building.

 

The interior was, if not palatial, not particularly austere or military either. The _Scharführer_ led the way up a Grand Baroque carved and gilded staircase, boots making an inordinate amount of noise on the uncarpeted floor, and knocked on a door that seemed to have been ground from a single piece of walnut. Without waiting for an answer, he flung it wide.

Three of the men Garrison had seen in the rear of the staff car as it swept over the bridge were present: the man with the beard was seated at the desk, Müller standing beside him, and the _Obersturmführer_ across the room with his back to the window, where his face could not be seen clearly.

Interesting.

" _Oberst_ Klimmermann. I am _Kommandant_ Müller. Allow me to present _Herrn_ von Staaden."

Garrison snapped to attention and produced a smart salute and a _"Heil Hitler!"_ to go with it, but his eyes strayed to the _Obersturmführer_ – and Müller gave him a little nod.

Müller was, in fact, looking extremely pleased with himself, but it was 'von Staaden' who opened the conversation. " _Herr Oberst_ , I understand that I have reason to be grateful to you. Now, if you will simply hand over the traitors, I will see you get full credit for their capture."

"I am sorry, _Herr_ von Staaden," Garrison said, deliberately sounding not the least bit sorry. He had perfected his portrayal of an arrogant young officer – be it _SS_ or _Wehrmacht_ or even US Army – some time before and did not see why von Staaden should not have the benefit of it, whether he was the man introduced as the Spycatcher or not. "The Field Marshal would be most upset if I did not bring him my prisoners. I have invited to _Herr_ Müller to accompany me to his headquarters. I now extend that invitation to you." He looked hard at Müller.

To give him his due, Müller picked up the cue at once. "I am sure that you would wish to speak to the Field Marshal, _Herr_ von Staaden – if only to... commend... _Oberst_ Klimmermann to him. I certainly wish to do so."

"Perhaps the _Obersturmführer_ would also like to accompany us?" Garrison suggested.

"Why should he do that?"

"Because I say so," Garrison activated the spring clip in his sleeve and the .22 special leaped into his hand. "I'm afraid you are all going to have to come along with me."

 

Goniff felt a gun shoving into his ribs. "Don't move." It was Gottlieb's voice, but he spoke in English, which he wasn't supposed to be able to do.

Fuck.

"You bastard." That was Casino. "You're supposed to be Garrison's buddy—"

"Shut up." And that was Jaenicke, which presumably meant that Casino was also being held at gunpoint.

Now one of the guards came forward, offering his hand to Gottlieb, who clasped it warmly. They spoke together in German, then the gun shoved harder into Goniff's ribs.

"Out."

Goniff obeyed.

 

If Garrison had expected a violent reaction to the appearance of the gun and his sharp order, he did not get it. Von Staaden rose slowly to his feet and lifted his hands, and the _Obersturmführer_ had frozen in midmovement, but the only thing Müller moved was his eyebrows. "I thought that was it! Now, where are _Herr_ Gottlieb and _Herr_ Jaenicke? And why—"

"Just stay where you are, _Herr_ Müller," Garrison ordered as the German took a step towards him.

"But—"

"Stay where you are."

It was getting dark outside now. Where the Devil was Ted? Everything depended on him. If he hadn't managed to get airborne before dark...

At least Actor was safe.

Who was he kidding? Even on their earliest missions, Actor had always come after him.

So, play out the charade. "Now, gentlemen, we're going to go down out of the building, nice and easy."

 

Frazini had arrived with the dusk. He had shaken his head over the catapult, but was now sitting on an ancient tree stump, watching Actor and Fabio wind the windlass, the essential preparation for loading the canvas sling at the end of the long throwing arm with the first of Simon's home-made bombs.

Overhead, they could hear the faint drone of an aircraft.

Actor looked at his watch. "Right on time."

 

"Drop the gun," Wilder's voice said from behind Garrison, much to that gentleman's relief. "Drop it, _Herr_ Garrison."

Garrison did not turn, did not lower his gun. "Who is faster, _Herr_ Wilder? Can I kill _Herr_ von Staaden before you kill me?"

Müller chuckled. "My dear Lieutenant, you don't really think von Staaden would have risked himself, do you?" He reached out and relieved Garrison of his gun without any resistance.

"So it was a trap. I suppose I ought to be flattered."

"Indeed, but not as flattered as you should have been if _Herr_ von Staaden himself had deigned to come to trap you personally."

There was a tap at the door. Wilder, gun in one hand, went to open it. Then he flung it wide, a broad grin on his face, as he admitted Casino and Goniff, being chivvied along at gunpoint by Gottlieb and Jaenicke.

"Ah, there you are, _Oberst_ ," Müller drawled. "And you too, _Hauptmann._ We've been waiting for you."

Garrison gave Jaenicke a scorching look, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. "So you were in on it too, Werner," he said bitterly. "You bastard. I never believed you'd do that to me."

Jaenicke's back was stiff. "I am not responsible for what you believed."

"Search them," Müller ordered. "Make sure they do not have cyanide capsules."

Casino knew enough German to understand that. "Suicide? Oh, come on, man."

"What about the other two?" Müller was asking Gottlieb, ignoring the comment.

"Back in England, under arrest on suspicion of murder. Without Garrison, they are nothing. And give me twenty minutes and as many men as you can spare, and you will have the other members of Allied Intelligence Special Units who came here with them."

"You have them." Müller's eyes flicked to Wilder. "You know the town. Go with him." Then, as both men headed for the door. "Wait! What about the partisans?"

"I have their camp pinpointed," said Gottlieb.

"Then we will let _Generalfeldmarschall_ Kesselring have the pleasure of taking them. Go, Krantz, go."

"At once."

Gottlieb – Krantz? – and Wilder left the room at a run.

Good. Two less to deal with.

 

The catapult kicked, as its predecessors had done two thousand years before. Frazini followed the flight of the Simon's home-made shell as well as he could in the dim light. It sailed over the trees and river, dropping and out of sight behind the town wall.

The aircraft noise was right overhead now, and low.

Only then it was drowned in the explosion.

Actor and Fabio took no notice of either. They were too busy winding the windlass for their second shot.

 

The explosion blew out the windows of Müller's office.

"So that is what Craig meant by a diversion!" Jaenicke exclaimed, from behind the desk. "Krantz overheard them calling in the RAF."

"They won't flatten the town!" the fake 'von Staaden' exclaimed, wiping a smear of blood from his cheek where a fragment of glass had hit it. "The Italians—"

"There were rumours of a raid," Müller admitted. "According to Andreoni, the partisans had warned their sympathisers but, like you, I did not think they would resort to something so crude."

"They mentioned a special squadron – 617 – that flies this kind of mission, could hit this building and not even touch the town."

Another explosion added an exclamation mark to Jaenicke's words.

"It'll be safe out there. You've got to—"

"No. Not into the town. That is no doubt what they want. Down to the shelter," Müller ordered decisively. "Yes, you too, Lieutenant Garrison. I do not want you or your men dead before we have the chance to question you."

 

They were herded down the backstairs at gun point, through the thunder of Ack-Ack fire and drifting smoke. At the foot, there was a sharp turn into a short corridor, running along the city wall, with flaking plaster to their left and limewashed stone on their right. Beyond that was a tiny courtyard, under a nearly-night sky intermittently lit by tracer flare. A short flight of stone steps led to a door in the city wall. 

Müller led the way down, thrusting the door wide and reaching inside for the light switch, then disappearing inside it.

The others followed.

The steps continued beyond the door, leading down into a dank room with an earth floor, lit only by a couple of bare bulbs strung from a wire that looped below the whitewashed the stone ceiling. They were swinging a little in the aftermath of the explosions, making strange shadow patterns across the benches and racks.

The door thudded shut behind the _Obersturmführer_ , the last man through. It was as he reached the bottom of the steps that a voice said, in English, "Put yer hands up," and, in that moment of distraction, Garrison had disarmed Müller, and Goniff elbowed the _Obersturmführer_ in the stomach.

The fake 'von Staaden', though, grabbed for Casino, who happened to be nearest, shouting, _"Ich werde ihn tö—"_ He stopped in mid-word, clutching the handle of a knife protruding from his throat.

Casino changed his dodge into a rabbit punch that broke the man's neck.

Jaenicke had frozen in the act of raising his own gun. "Chief! But—"

"You thought I wuz in England?" Chief grinned at him. "Sorry, pal. The Warden weren't fooled by your act. Now drop the gun, or the other guys get theirs."

"And so do you," Benedetta appeared from the shadows, her Sten pointed directly at Jaenicke. "Or do you want us to kill them now, Major?"

"No. They have a great deal to tell us first," Garrison said, as Chief tossed him a gun. "Casino, make sure no-one else can get through that door. Everyone else, out of here."

"There is no other exit," the _Obersturmführer_ protested, showing an excellent command of English.

Müller sighed. "Unfortunately, I think there might be – now."

"Stop jawin' an' move, kraut. Sure you don't want me to slit his throat now, Warden? It'd be a real pleasure."

Garrison ignored the suggestion. "La Freccia, you lead the way," he ordered. 

At the back of the room, a ladder had been lowered through a very new hole in a very dark corner. Benedetta swarmed up it. With a shrug, Müller followed, Casino behind him, then the _Obersturmführer _, Garrison (who was trying to conceal the fact he was only using one hand), Jaenicke and Goniff. Chief remained behind just long enough to set the timer on the device unhooked from his belt, then scuttled after them.__

__

__The ladder ascended a shaft that still showed traces of a spiral stairway. At the top, a slender hole that bore recent chisel marks led into a narrow passageway._ _

__They were only just through it when a wave of sound and concussion hit them from below, shaking the rock under their feet, raising clouds of dust and raining a steady trickle of pebbles down from the roof._ _

__With only a couple of flashlights to guide them, they stumbled on for what seemed like forever, with only the muffled explosions to remind them of what was happening outside the ancient walls. Sometimes the tunnel was so full of rubble that they had to crawl. Casino, who hated confined spaces about has much as he hated heights, cursed monotonously, a gentle, "Fuck, fuck, fuck," a lulling sound, like waves on a shingle shore. Jaenicke was doing much the same in German._ _

__Garrison smiled to himself. In fact, he could hardly stop himself laughing aloud. This was the feeling he lived for, that he was that much more alive because death was so close, his mind making leaps it would never have contemplated without the spur of danger._ _

__Could he give this up?_ _

__Well, he'd have to, once the war was over._ _

__No doubt he'd find a substitute, though probably not along the path Actor had chosen for what he suspected were similar reasons, and from which he must now divert him._ _

__He'd think of something._ _

__Though now was not perhaps the time, even with his mind taking fences at the gallop. There were other obstacles to worry about._ _

__Ahead, the tunnel ended in a brick wall, where a ragged hole led into a roofless, ruined room._ _

__They were on the far side of the town gate, where he had been sure the tunnel would finally emerge, out of sight of any guards still on the roof of the HQ building. The explosions had stopped, and the sky was peacefully dark._ _

__Garrison ordered the Germans gagged and their hands bound before slipping down the stone-faced bank and to the wharf under the bridge. Hand over hand, he hauled on a line he found pegged into the earth, eventually pulling a boat moored in the shadows beneath the bridge into view._ _

__Once everyone was on board, Garrison and Casino took the oars and sculled silently towards the further bank._ _

__

__Krantz looked around the ruined safe house with growing unease. There was no trace of Simon or his men, or even any sign that the place had been occupied until less than four hours before._ _

__"They've flown the coop," his companion commented, in a lengthening pause between explosions._ _

__"Yes, I can see that," Krantz said grimly, scuffing the floor with his right foot as he thought._ _

__"Maybe they got wind of our arrival. If we act swiftly we might yet catch them."_ _

__Krantz caught the other man's arm as he started for what had once been a door. "No. They must have left before curfew. And they've cleared the place. This wasn't done in a hurry. They must have started to pack up as soon as we left. I don't like it, any more than I like this bombing raid. Or that it appears to have stopped. Let's get back to the HQ"_ _

__

__Once the sound of aero engines had died, the three men began to break down the catapult into its components. Actor and Fabio were all for casting most of it into the river, where it would pass for driftwood, but Frazini insisted that they should take it with them._ _

__He no doubt intended to try it out again in the very near future._ _

__All the same, Actor acknowledged, the delay was enough to put paid to any chance he might have had of catching up with Garrison._ _

__

__Once everyone was out of the boat, the Germans were herded onto the road, where Garrison ordered the gags and bonds removed so that they could make better time._ _

__As Goniff and Benedetta complied, he drew Chief aside. "I know you did what you had to, back there – but let's keep these three alive, okay?"_ _

__"Why, if none of them's von Staaden?"_ _

__"Aren't they?"_ _

__"S'what Casino said." Chief looked pointedly at the safecracker._ _

__Who said, "The _Obersturmführer_ , huh?"_ _

__"Keep them alive," Garrison ordered. "Now let's get out of here."_ _

__As they tramped down along the road, with the occasional stumble and curse, Kommandant Müller trotted to catch up with Garrison. "You've failed," he pointed out. "We're slowing you down."_ _

__"Well, I could have you all killed on the spot, I suppose, but I'd kinda like to hear what you all have to say."_ _

__"There'll be men on your tail within half an hour."_ _

__"Allow me to worry about that. Just keep running."_ _

__

__With the arrival of half a dozen of Frazini's men, lugging the catapult became a viable proposition. They also brought the news that, as planned, Pontedorato was in uproar._ _

__"I'd better get back there now," Fabio said. "The crowds will give me cover."_ _

__"You would be safer with us," Frazini pointed out._ _

__"Too many people need me there. And why should anyone suspect me?"_ _

__"Maybe Andreoni does. Maybe that's why he's courting Silvia, and is round your place so much of the time."_ _

__"He isn't around my place; Silvia is. And he is cultivating Silvia because she tells him all the rumours. If he suspects anyone it is Benedetta, not me. And Benedetta plans to leave with your Chief. Silvia is simply too valuable for them to discard, as am I."_ _

__"Well, take care of yourself." Actor hesitated, then offered his hand. "And take care of Rosa and my mother."_ _

__"Your family still needs you."_ _

__"Yes," Actor said, guessing that Fabio would misunderstand him. For all his air of sophistication, the other man was a traditional small town Italian, and the idea of a family to whom you were not related by either blood or marriage was beyond his experience. "Goodbye, Fabio. Maybe we'll meet again."_ _

__And on that deliberately unsettling note, he hefted his section of the catapult and followed Frazini._ _

__

__The square outside the HQ building was crammed. Pontedorato's citizens – only reluctantly obedient to the curfew at the best of times – had abandoned their homes at the first explosion and were now milling about in the semi-darkness, all talking excitedly._ _

__As Krantz pushed his way through towards the gate, he noticed with disquiet that the two men on guard were casting more glances behind them than at the unruly citizens._ _

__Then one of them pointed a flashlight directly into his face. As he shielded his eyes with his hand, he could hear the click of cocking rifles._ _

__"Fool! Don't you recognise us?" he barked._ _

__"Sorry, _Herr_ Krantz," said an apologetic voice and, abruptly, the flashlight ceased to blind him._ _

__"Where's _Scharführer_ Wiehan?" Krantz demanded, striding forward confidently now he was no longer in danger of being shot by his own side._ _

__The guards seemed astonishingly reluctant to answer. One gulped, then said, "Inside, sir. He went to... He's inside."_ _

__"Has anyone been in or out – except us – since the bombing started?"_ _

__Krantz jumped at the voice from behind him, then nodded approval at the pertinent question. "Well?"_ _

__"No, sir. No-one. But—"_ _

__"But what?"_ _

__"Nothing, sir."_ _

__Krantz raised eyes to Heaven in a plea for patience, and hurried on._ _

__

__The road was now intermittently lit by moonlight, as well as by their flashlights, and they were making better time mainly because they could see stones and ruts before they tripped over them. The sound of explosions had long since stopped and, as yet, there was no sign of the promised pursuit._ _

__Chief, at point, halted, hand raised. "Somethin' comin'."_ _

__Ahead, there was the muffled clatter of engines._ _

__"It's not movin'," he added, obviously puzzled._ _

__"That's great." Garrison was smiling with relief. "Hurry it up. It shouldn't be far."_ _

__And indeed it wasn't. As they rounded the next bend, light sparkled on moving metal. Ahead, sitting in the middle of the road, was the Pronghorn, its idling airscrews glittering in their flashlight beams._ _

__"All aboard that's coming aboard," Ted called from the open door._ _

__Garrison gestured to Chief and Benedetta to lead the way inside, with Müller, Jaenicke and the _Obersturmführer_ to follow._ _

__Casino and Goniff went in after them, greeting Ted cheerfully, and demanding to know where he had got "the crate."_ _

__"The Major arranged it. Hey, Major, what about Actor?"_ _

__"He's not here?" Garrison's voice was too sharp, too anxious._ _

__"Nope. Ain't been here long, myself."_ _

__Keep it cool, Craig. "Then he's probably making—"_ _

__"No-one is to move." The voice was unexpected – that of the _Obersturmführer_ – and its message even more so. Particularly as they now could all see the reason for its confidence._ _

__"Where the Hell did you get that?" Casino demanded._ _

__Not that the question had any real relevance. What did was that the man was holding a grenade – not a German stick grenade but a British Mills bomb – that the firing pin was out, and that his grip on the lever was all that was keeping them alive._ _

__And Chief was hesitating, with the knife in his hand._ _

__That was, Garrison knew, his own fault. So was the fact that he had not searched the _Obersturmführer_ or any of the other Germans despite knowing that the 'shelter' beneath the wall had also been used for storing armaments. What was worse, the man was on his right, and he wasn't sure he could move that arm fast enough to disarm him. It still hurt like Hell from the action in the cellar._ _

__Once he let go of the lever they would have four seconds._ _

__"Hold it, pardner." Chief might have been reluctant to draw his knife, but Ted's Colt had come out with a speed that suggested much practising in front of a mirror, the long barrel of the Peacemaker targeted directly on the _Obersturmführer.__ _

__He used a two-handed grip, though, well aware that the big gun had a kick like a mule and was notoriously inaccurate unless carefully sighted._ _

__"You will not use that, not if you want to live," the _Obersturmführer_ said, flexing his fingers significantly on the lever._ _

__"You wanna bet, pal?" Ted glanced at Casino, standing, tensed, a foot away from the _Obersturmführer_ ; Casino, who pitched for the Crazies' baseball team and had fielded for the village at cricket. The Peacemaker spoke, deafening everyone and filling the air with acrid smoke._ _

__The _Obersturmführer_ was thrown backwards against the door frame, the grenade dropping from his hand._ _

__Müller was out of the door and running as Ted pulled the trigger, but Garrison was after him as the shot rang out, and on him in half a dozen strides, felling him and trapping him between his own body and the dirt, as he had done so often on the gridiron. And before the grenade hit the plane's floor, Casino had scooped it out of the air and hurled it through the door, over the heads of Garrison and Müller and into the trees._ _

__"Hold it!" Ted snarled at Jaenicke, who was about to quit the plane. Though the order was almost lost in the explosion, Jaenicke heard him and, more importantly, realised that the Peacemaker was now pointed directly at him._ _

__The silence was intense. Then Garrison hauled Müller to his feet, hoping that no-one noticed that he had to use his left hand, and bundled the German back towards the plane._ _

__"This is a mistake. I know very little compared with von Staaden," he complained. "You have been to a great deal of trouble for nothing."_ _

__"Allow us to worry about that," Garrison said genially. "Inside, please, or do I have to carry you?"_ _

__Müller obeyed._ _

__Garrison leaped into the doorway, paused, and looked back. There was no sign of Actor._ _

__Well, he'd left the decision as to whether to try to join them or Simon with the conman, who'd probably decided it was safer to take to the hills with Frazini. No-one had managed to lay hands on the partisan leader since his brush with Hauser had made him more than usually wary. They'd have to send a plane for Simon and his men anyway..._ _

__If Actor didn't decide to stay, not just with the partisans but with his family. While he appeared tolerant if a little suspicious of Fabio there was still Rosa. Revenge in that direction might be very sweet. And tempting._ _

__If only he could go back and retrieve him personally._ _

__He slammed the door behind him. "Get us out of here, Ted."_ _

__

__"There is no sign of _Herr_ von Staaden. Or the prisoners. Or _Herr_ Hartwig or _Herr_ Schenk," _ Scharführer_ Wiehan explained.

"Well, according to your men they didn't leave the building—"

"They didn't."

"So they must be somewhere inside it."

"Yes, sir." Wiehan's eyes shifted. "We think... we know where they went. There is a room we use as a shelter."

"Inside the old town wall. A storage room."

"When the bombing started, they must have gone there. It was the first place we checked, after the office. I do not know if it was the bombs, _Herr_ Krantz, but it... it no longer exists. The roof has fallen in. _Herr_ von Staaden... anyone... inside must have been crushed under tonnes of rock."

 _"Meine Gott!"_ It was a cry of pain. Then, somehow, Krantz pulled himself together. "Take me there." Even if he had to dig the stones away with his bare hands, he would do it to save von Staaden. There was still, after all, a chance.

 

**Chapter 15**

 

The Pronghorn headed South just as fast as it could fly. By dawn it had crossed the Allied lines and had landed at Bari.

"Separate the Germans and make damn sure they have no means of suicide or communication with anyone, even each other," Garrison was telling the security officers who had arrived to take temporary charge of the prisoners almost before the airscrews had stopped turning. "I'm going to call Colonel Yates."

"Don't look so worried, Warden," Casino said, in unneeded reassurance, as the Gorillas and Benedetta followed his swift pace across the tarmac. "The Colonel knows you did your best."

"Yeah," Goniff chimed in, "It's not your fault we failed."

"Failed?" Garrison looked from Goniff to Casino to Chief to Ted as if he had never seen them before. Then the worry lifted from his face as his wide mouth curved into a smile. "Like Hell we failed. That's why you'd better not slip up with those Germans. Unless I've just made the biggest mistake of my life, the man we know as Franz Müller is really Otto von Staaden."

 

Frazini's real camp was high in the mountains. It was there that Actor was reunited with Simon, Wireless and the others.

"Did he pull it off?" was the first thing Simon wanted to know.

"I wish I could be certain," Actor admitted. "Has Wireless made contact with Bari?"

"Lost the one-time pad on the way in here," that gentleman admitted. "And it's too bleeding risky to use Frazini's codes. We'll 'ave t'wait for t'pickoop instructions."

"Let us hope we receive them then."

 

"I do not believe it," Krantz said as he paced 'Müller''s office, a cigarette dangling from his fingers. "I do not believe there was a bombing raid, I do not believe the roof of the shelter just happened to collapse and, most of all, I do not believe anyone was killed, and certainly not von Staaden or Garrison."

"You're clutching at straws."

"No. I slipped up. Or Jaenicke did, which is simply another way of saying that I slipped up. Garrison knew, or at least suspected, that we were von Staaden's agents."

"But he couldn't know that _Kommandant_ Müller was von Staaden. How could he?"

"What if he knew you were really Franz Müller?"

"How could he?" Müller repeated. "He didn't even know I was Frank Miller. To him I was Hans Wilder. And he didn't see me until we were in this office."

"We can't be sure of that. So let us assume that von Staaden is alive. They will not interrogate him here in Italy." He picked up his hat. "Come along."

"Where are we going?"

"To England."

 

Actor and Simon were instructing Frazini's captains in the use of the catapult when the partisan leader himself arrived. "Something you should know," he opened.

"You've made radio contact."

"Unfortunately not, but Gottlieb – or whatever his real name is – flew out of the airfield in a fast transport plane five, six hours ago. He had Andreoni with him."

"No reprisals? No search for partisans?"

"None. And Branconi says no work has been done digging out the 'bomb' damage."

"I wish I knew where Gottlieb was going," Actor admitted.

"North and west."

"There is a lot North and West of us, including an invasion force, England and America."

"He cannot be going there."

"I wonder."

 

Von Staaden paced the room in which he was held, looking again for an escape route and finding none. He wondered what they had done with young Jaenicke.

Who must have been spotted from the first; they spotted him, deduced 'Gottlieb' must also be phoney, and gave all of them enough rope to hang themselves.

He had thrust his own head into the noose.

If only Garrison had been his, had chosen to stay in Germany before the war, not taken himself off to West Point and put himself in total opposition to the _Reich_ that would have accepted him wholeheartedly, and made full use of his talents. The _Führer_ would have liked him, too. And he really was a most extraordinary young man. It was lucky he had not been old enough to take command of OSS when it had been formed. Given another five years...

The extraordinary young man had asked for his parole and, when he had refused to give it, had had him been carefully searched and every potentially useful object removed by Casino and Goniff with an efficiency that suggested they had been on the other side of the process many times.

He had considered trying to kill himself, but decided against it for the same reason he had refused the parole: Krantz was free with the resources of the _Reich_ to call on as well as Müller's undoubted talents.

Krantz would come for him and, when he did, there must be no obligation to Garrison, so he could act without breaking his word.

Such a pity Garrison was going to have to die. Such a very great pity.

 

For Garrison, the four days he insisted on waiting at Bari seemed a nightmare from which he could not wake up. His duty was to get von Staaden safely back to England as swiftly as possible; every second he delayed was another in which the deception might be discovered and a counterblow set in motion.

But there was Actor...

Taking von Staaden back to England was an easy decision – but what about Benedetta, to whom he owed so much, and who plainly meant so much to Chief? If she was coming with them, arrangements would have to be made or she would be arrested as soon as they landed.

He hoped to God Actor's mother, Fabio, Silvia and the rest were safe. He would never be able to face Actor if his family and friends died in the aftermath of a Gorillas' operation.

Maybe he wouldn't have to. Maybe Actor had chosen to become Alessandro Tesauro again. After all, Alessandro had committed no crime. And there was his own promise, to restore at least part of the Tesauro wealth.

That would tempt Actor.

And then there was the safety of Simon and his unit. Was von Staaden worth the decimation of the Crazies? He thought about Simon's wife, pretty and generous and always faintly exasperated. How could he tell her he'd gotten Simon killed?

He couldn't leave without knowing, couldn't leave without Actor...

Only it looked as if he was going to have to. There was no way he could put the Colonel off any longer.

With a heavy heart, he went to see the base commander to arrange a plane to ferry them back to England.

 

When he returned, he sought out Chief, and found him watching with interest as Casino and Goniff fleeced the local troops at poker. A look and a raised finger brought the Indian to his side.

"We take off for England in five hours," he opened, as soon as they were out of earshot. "But there is some good news. SOE are due to make a routine delivery and pickup for Frazini tonight. I've arranged for Ted to fly the mission. He may get some news of Actor, Simon and the others. He could take passengers with him. What about Benedetta? Is she coming to England with us?"

Chief shook his head. "She's worried about her family. An' she reckons the partisans need her."

Garrison nodded. "Maybe she's right. But what about you, Chief?"

"Me? I guess—" Chief shuffled his feet and turned away from Garrison to stare unseeingly through the window. "Thought you might want to go back an' look for Actor."

"Whatever I want, that's something I can't do. But maybe you could do it for me." Then, as Chief whirled to face him. "We'll call it that, shall we? Go back to look for Simon and Actor and stay to help Benedetta take care of her family."

"You'd let me go back?" Chief was round-eyed with astonishment. "What about my parole?"

"You're going back under my orders. Your parole is safe. And maybe this is your opportunity for a second chance, Chief. I'd grab it, even if it does mean having Actor as a brother-in-law."

"You think she'd have me?"

"Ask her, Chief. The worst she can say is, 'No,' and that shouldn't stop you asking her again. But I don't think she will."

 

Krantz and Müller had arrived in the United Kingdom via the back door, through the neutral Republic of Ireland. Once over the border into Ulster, they donned the RAF officers' uniforms they had brought with them and Krantz, with a nerve Müller could only admire, commandeered space on a RAF aircraft flying to Liverpool.

From there, they look the train to Euston, where they were met by a smart-looking civilian complete with pinstripes and rolled umbrella, though an official car was substituted for the more conventional bowler hat.

"I hope this is important," he snapped, as soon as the door was decently closed and the driver isolated behind sound-proofed glass. "I'm risking a cover that took years to perfect."

"There is nothing more important," Krantz said, "short of saving the _Führer_. These men hold Otto von Staaden prisoner. If he talks – as he will, of course, unless he manages to commit suicide first – there is no-one in England or the United States whose cover is safe."

"They will have been here days ago," Müller said gloomily.

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. Did you get the information I wanted?" Krantz asked.

"Yes. Though as he's not One of Us – not English – I had to pull some strings at the US Embassy and SHAEF I'd rather have left untouched. If something happens to him, someone may get suspici—"

"I need bargaining counters, and once they get von Staaden into interrogation there won't be any. What about the airfield at Dashunt Lacey?"

"It's being watched. Hilda got an airman there drunk last night, enough to lower his guard. Nothing unusual's been in or out and certainly not the men you described."

"Then we may be in time."

 

Actor stubbed out his last cigarette. He had smoked the entire pack in the last couple of hours. Throwing the butt to the ground and crushing it under his heel, he looked at his watch; where was that damned plane?

And, when it got here, would the pilot be able to relieve his desperate anxiety – or would he know nothing of Garrison's whereabouts?

What would he do if his lover hadn't made it back?

Well, first of all he'd have to go back to Pontedorato and find out if he'd been captured. And if he was still alive.

And if he wasn't?

Decision suddenly made, Actor knew his own mind at last. If Garrison was dead he would stay here with the partisans, whether Yates wanted him to or not.

Only, damn it, that wasn't the point at all. The real question was: what would Garrison have wanted?

Someone has to look after the team. I wanted to be second-in-command...

Oh, fuck it.

"Here's the plane now," someone said, and men rushed to lay out the flares.

Wireless appeared at his side, head cocked as he listened to the approaching engines. "Aye aye, that's a big job, that is."

"Three engines," Simon agreed, from behind them both. "But not ones I know." His voice took on a faint note of alarm. "German?"

"Wait," Actor commanded, not thinking it odd that he should give orders to Simon, and even odder that they should be obeyed without question. "But have your guns ready."

It was the Pronghorn. Actor recognised the markings, and the face that appeared in the door was blessedly familiar.

"Hi, boys." Ted stood aside to let his passengers leap to the ground.

"Chief!" Actor exclaimed. "Bettina! Thank God you're both okay. What about the others?"

"All safe."

"And Garrison?" Actor insisted.

"Should've left for England by now – with the Germans."

"He says that Müller guy is really von Staaden," Chief contributed.

"Yes. It was always a possibility," Actor said absently. He looked sharply at Ted. "This plane's got range, hasn't it?"

"Just a couple of thousand miles on a full tanks." Ted tried to sound offhand, but he was plainly in love with the machine.

"Is it fuelled up?"

"Yup. Was, anyway. If we have to we can make a quick stop behind our lines to top up."

"Then let's see if we can catch them."

"Hold it, Actor," Simon began. "You can't steal—"

"Borrow, Captain, borrow."

Wireless was grinning. "The Lootenant alus makes them put everything back wheer they found it, loik."

"But we always show it to him first."

Simon looked helplessly at Ted. "Can this crate make it?"

"You bet she can."

"Then let's go. I want to be around for the celebrations."

 

The official car pulled to a stop in a London square of tall, elegantly proportioned houses. The railings that had once divided the central garden from the road and the houses from the street and each other had long gone to the furnaces, and there were a couple of gaps where bombs had extracted particular buildings, but these were already shrouded in tall weeds, showing a hint of pink colour.

"Number 15," their guide said. "They're due at a lunchtime reception given by the Australian High Commissioner. Except that there is no reception, and no official car. Only you. They won't be missed until late tonight, with any luck, perhaps not even then... and I will have a cover story ready, if need be. You sure you do not want my help here?"

"We would not," Krantz said bitterly, "want to jeopardise your cover."

"Then this is where I get out. Good luck, _Herr_ Krantz, _Herr_ Müller."

He slammed the door and sauntered away, idly chopping at straggling weeds with his brolly.

 

Once he had gone, their driver – who was wearing a smart but unidentifiable chauffeur's uniform – pulled the car close to the kerb, got out, clattered up the steps to the front door of number 15 and rapped on the polished knocker. At the same time, Müller and Krantz left the car on the right hand – the street – side and crouched out of sight of the house.

Whose door opened.

Neither Krantz nor Müller could see into the hall beyond, but the driver touched the peak of his cap and said something too low to catch from the street. A few moments later, he returned to the car, the door to the house firmly closed behind him.

"They're coming," he mouthed to Krantz and Müller.

Krantz remained crouching at the far side of the car, but Müller skittered across the pavement and into the inadequate cover of the trash can in the tiny yard below the main steps. Krantz just hoped no-one looked out of the basement windows.

The door opened again. Krantz recognised James Garrison, looking extremely distinguished in formal dress. Though Müller had never seen James, Krantz was sure he would identify him at once from the man's resemblance to his son. Emma Garrison was petite and pretty and rather fragile-looking in her expensive but slightly dated silk suit and tiny, feathered hat.

As they descended the steps to street level, Müller ascended from below, keeping well out of sight of even their peripheral vision.

The driver opened the door for them, and James helped his wife into car. The instant they were both settled, Krantz drew his gun, opened his door, and was inside facing the Garrisons before they had time to register his presence.

"Just stay still and quiet," Krantz ordered, as Müller followed them in from the other side, then signalled the driver to move off.

Emma clutched at her husband's arm, but didn't scream, didn't say anything. Krantz decided not to underestimate her.

"Major Gottlieb – ah," James Garrison said, patting his wife's hand. Plainly, it was his _sang-froid_ his son had inherited. Nor had the Air Commodore's uniform Krantz was wearing delayed his recognition "Then both you and Werner Jaenicke were indeed spies."

"Werner?" Emma was startled. "But Werner is dead. North Africa."

James stared at her in astonishment. "Jutta," she said, in explanation.

"Dear God, woman—"

"I didn't think you'd be interested. Besides, you'd've only wanted to use my contact with her. And she is still my friend."

"So instead we're being used – am I right, _Herr_ Gottlieb, if that really is your name?"

"Quite right," Krantz said. "But killing you is not part of the programme – unless you make me do it. You see, _Herr_ Garrison, your son has a prisoner I want to free. I have acquired two captives that he will want to free even more. I am sure we can come to an equitable arrangement."

James pursed his lips. "So Craig really did take von Staaden. I will have to apologise to Colonel Yates. He plainly knows my son better than I do."

 

It was only later that Krantz reflected on the breathtaking assurance – arrogance – of the assumption that James would have the opportunity. By then the emotional atmosphere in the car was as cold and withdrawn as the afternoon air was hot and sticky.

It was a relief when the driver turned off the narrow road and bounced a dozen yards up a cart track to an ancient building that might once have been a cottage but had been used more recently by a flock of sheep. The low light shone darkly from the flint rubble walls and the wary eyes of the newly-barbered sheep perched on them. A soft call brought out a woman, clad in the omnipresent overalls of the land girls, her grey-streaked hair neatly plaited – but her hands were well cared for and her skin untanned.

Krantz stuck his head out of the window: "Hilda!" he greeted with delight. "What news?"

"You're just in time." Her voice was soft and standard Southern English in accent, but then her father had been an English gentleman, the son of a baronet, before he had been seduced, first by the daughter of a German industrialist, then by Hitler's vision. "A US staff car, escort and an armoured van went past and towards the airfield only a few minutes ago."

"Could you identify any of the occupants of the staff car?"

"General Franks of Allied Intelligence, a British Naval Captain who looked suspiciously like Cadwallader of SIS, and a US Army Colonel I didn't recognise. In his forties. Dark haired."

"Yates, probably. He'd recognise me." Krantz looked hard at Müller. "You can handle your end?"

"Of course."

"Very well. I'll be covering you. Please step out of the car, Mrs Garrison. Thank you. Hilda will take care of you. Mr Garrison, please remember that we have your wife and neither Hilda nor I will hesitated to kill her if you betray us."

Müller, meanwhile, had circled the car, located the Number 4 sniper's rifle with telescopic sights that had been left in the boot, and threw it and two boxes of .303 ammunition to Krantz, who caught them neatly. He then extracted a suitcase and lugged it round to the driver with orders to, "Change into this – and junk your current papers in favour of the ones in here," before sliding back into the car, keeping his gun trained on James Garrison.

Having checked the rifle and the sights to his satisfaction, Krantz turned to Hilda, who had a strong grip on Emma's arm. "I need to be in line of sight of the airfield runways, but not visible from them."

The woman thought for a moment, then nodded. "I have just the place."

While the driver, now clad in USAAF uniform, was manoeuvring the car in a tight and bumpy three point turn, Hilda led the way at an angle from the road and across the Kent countryside.

 

**Chapter 16**

 

For Garrison, the end of a mission was normally signalled by mild euphoria, however tired he had been. The letdown came later. Today, it was gripping him even though the mission hadn't finished.

If only he wasn't so tired.

Partly it was leaving Actor and Chief behind, perhaps leaving that phase of his life behind. He didn't want to quit the Crazies, didn't want to abandon his team.

Not that he would have any choice in the matter. Anymore than he'd had any real choice about leaving Actor, Chief, Simon and the rest in Italy, though he comforted himself that he could never have separated Ted from the Pronghorn.

And that was another thing. His Uncle Andrew was going to extract a price for the help he had promised the Tesauros – almost certainly a more active interest in the company. He'd spent almost as much effort avoiding Ross Aviation as he had in dodging his father's political ambitions. But last year he'd inherited twenty-five per cent of the shares in the company, previously held in Trust, which made him the major stockholder after Uncle Andrew.

The Army had been his escape. Only now it looked just as much of a trap. And he was flying right back into it.

 

Dashunt Lacey squatted on a plain at the feet of gently undulating chalk hills. Hilda's preferred spot was in a clump of birches sprouting from a small hillock. It gave Krantz his line of sight – and fire – but meant he had to lie flat or a casual glance from turf or tarmac would pick him out. At least Hilda could keep Emma Garrison hidden on the other side of the hill. 

For a wonder, it wasn't raining. Indeed, little white fleecy clouds flew high over a sun sinking all too rapidly towards the horizon.

If Garrison brought von Staaden in at night, they were going to be in trouble.

That didn't look probable for, through the telescopic sites of his rifle and, despite the distraction of a skittering blue butterfly, which seemed to think the rifle was some kind of flower, he could see the little group of men standing waiting on the tarmac, and confirmed that Yates was indeed with them. Though it provided him with a wonderful chance to pick off the current head of Allied Intelligence, one of the deputy Commanders of SIS and the head of Allied Intelligence Special Units, the temptation to pull the trigger was quite easily resisted.

Thank God Garrison had been delayed in some way. Freeing von Staaden once he had been spirited away for interrogation would have been far more daunting and the rank of the reception committee suggested that Garrison was indeed well aware just who he had captured.

We underestimated him from the first. I'll wager that neither Chief nor Actor was ever under suspicion; they were probably in Italy too.

But perhaps Garrison had underestimated him – and Müller.

Whose car was arriving at the gates even now, with James Garrison seated stiffly besides him. 

First test – of Müller's nerve, of their forged papers, and whether James Garrison loved his wife more than his country.

 

If James had hoped to be refused entrance to the airfield, he was disappointed. The guards at the gate visibly blanched when they saw the – quite genuine – signatures on the passes. 

"I understand General Franks is already here," Müller said, as one of the guards went to find the station Adjutant.

"Yes, sir. He's out on the tarmac with Squadron Leader Graham, Colonel Yates and some Navy Captain."

"Garrison's not back yet, then?"

"No, sir. But his plane's expected within the next few minutes."

Müller smiled genially at his captive. "I expect you'll be glad to see your son safe and sound, my dear James."

It didn't really need an answer, and James Garrison did not deign to give one but that, Müller knew, would be interpreted as nervousness.

Good.

"Ah, there you are, Flight Lieutenant," he went on, apparently delighted to see the Adjutant. "Could you make this quick. We don't want to miss the big event."

"Of course not, sir." The Adjutant was not a man to be intimidated. "It's just that we weren't informed of your arrival."

"You weren't? That's remiss of your staff, James. Still, I suppose that Franks and Yates will vouch for you."

This drew the Adjutant's attention to James. "Mr Garrison?" The glance became a stare. "Excuse me, sir, are you a relation of Major Craig Garrison?"

The promotion was probably news to James, but he didn't bat an eyelid. "I'm his father."

"Thought so. Give him my regards. You'll want to be there when he lands. Okay, lads, the man's face vouches for him. Let them through."

 

Krantz seemed to have been waiting forever, so long that the butterfly had actually settled on his sights, and was that the drone of aero engines he could hear? God damn it, if Müller didn't get through they were finished.

He drew a sudden breath of relief as he spotted Müller's car making its way towards the tarmac outside the hangers.

 

At one time, even here in the Garden of England, a car arriving unexpectedly at such a moment would have been an object of suspicion, but with the invasion force on its way across France, the Russians pushing towards Poland in on the East, and Italy south of Rome in Allied hands, there had been a natural relaxation, born of the assurance that England was not going to be invaded in the foreseeable future.

Krantz had got it right again, Müller admitted to himself.

No guns were turned on them as the car drew to a halt, though the US Army MPs standing beside the armoured van had the bayonets fixed on their carbines and their eyes on the intruders.

It was the US Army Colonel – Yates, presumably – who led the way across to meet them, but the other three officers were close on his heels.

Müller put the gun in his pocket, muttered, "We have your wife, remember?" at James Garrison, and pushed him gently out of the door as the driver opened it for them.

James ignored the jibe and, instead, shook Yates's offered hand. "Colonel."

"I can't say I'm surprised to see you," Yates said, with a smile. "General, this is Mr James Garrison; he's with the State Department. And Major Garrison's father. And remarkably well informed. Mr Garrison, General Franks, Captain Blakeney, Squadron Leader Graham." 

"Good to see you, gentlemen," James said easily. "This is Group Captain Lennox-Smythe. He's my liaison."

The usual orgy of saluting followed.

"And you're just in time," Yates added, as a DC-3 – what many Americans had, like the British, taken to calling a Dakota – with USAAF markings touched down at the other end of the runway.

 

As the aircraft taxied towards them, Müller faded as best he could into the background. With any luck, Garrison would not have eyes for anyone but his father and the officers until it was too late. And James, at least, knew that there was a gun on him and, even more importantly, one on his wife.

 

The noise of the engines died, leaving an unnatural silence in the Dakota's hold to be shattered seconds later by the navigator, on his way back from the cockpit. "Hey, you guys should see the gold braid lined up out there!"

"He ain't kidding," said the pilot, arriving behind him. "What've you got here? Himmler?"

"No cigar," Garrison told him. "Okay, out you get, _Herr_ von Staaden – and you, Manfred."

"You knew who I was all the time, Craig, didn't you?" Jaenicke asked tiredly, not rising from his seat.

"I'm afraid so. Not that you didn't do a great job. It just wasn't quite good enough. But you're out of the war now, and there'll be a homecoming for you, one day."

"But not for me." The quiet voice was von Staaden's. "For me there will be a trial, will there not? Prison – or the hangman?"

Garrison looked at the so ordinary-seeming German, met the calm grey eyes, and once again warned himself against their attraction, against relaxing, even now, when they were safe on English soil.

Well, not all of them. He still had no word of Actor and Simon, though he had been hoping for a radio message from Ted telling him they were on their way to Bari.

Concentrate on cases.

"I don't know, _Herr_ von Staaden. If you co-operate... Well, Field Marshall Donner has no reason to complain about his treatment."

"I guessed you were responsible for Donner." Again that mild smile and friendly voice. "You should have been born German, Major. We – and Krantz – would have made an extraordinary team."

Don't get drawn in.

Garrison shook himself mentally. "The aircrew go first," he said. "Then Casino, then you, Manfred, then Goniff, then you, _Herr_ von Staaden. I'll bring up the year. You two," he added, looking at Goniff, then Casino, "don't relax your guard."

 

Brass was right. The first thing Garrison noticed as his feet hit the ground was the amount of gold braid gleaming in the evening sunlight. For a moment the mixture of low angle light and heavy shadow confused him, then he recognised not only Franks and Yates, but his father.

Oh shit.

A squad of MPs was already advancing to secure the prisoners, Squadron Leader Jimmy Graham at their head. To Garrison's astonishment, he stopped and saluted. Then he remembered his own recent elevation in rank, that they were now equals, and returned the salute before extending his hand. "'Evening, Jimmy."

"'Evening, Craig. Hell of a reception committee."

"You said it."

"And you made good time." The Squadron Leader looked past him to the aircrew. "If you chaps head for the Mess they're just about to serve dinner."

"Great!" Casino exclaimed. "Let's join them, huh, Warden?"

Garrison glanced towards Yates, then his father. "Okay, you and Goniff go eat. I'll handle the Brass."

"Craig, your father—"

"I've seen him, Jimmy." He raised his voice, " _Herr_ von Staaden, would you please come with me." 

"I am at your command, of necessity, Major."

"You too, Manfred." Garrison's eyes swept to the MPs, "And you guys stay alert."

 

Ignoring his father, who seemed to be trying to catch his eye, Garrison halted in front of General Franks and saluted. "General Franks, may I present _Herrn_ Otto von Staaden. _Herr_ von Staaden, General Franks of Allied Intelligence."

 _"Herr General."_ Von Staaden bowed and clicked his heels.

Franks was, as Garrison had expected, equal to the occasion. _"Guten Abend, Herr von Staaden. Ich bin sehr erfreut Sie kennenzulernen. Willkommen in England._ Congratulations, Major Garrison."

That was, Garrison knew, a confirmation of his new rank, and Yates was wearing a full Colonel's insignia – _"I expect to get my eagle out of this too, son," he'd said_ – and a big grin.

His father wasn't smiling, though. Far from it.

Oh God, what now? What the Hell do I have to do to impress him? Walk on water?

The next voice wasn't his father's, though oddly familiar, and the words were totally unexpected: "You will all raise your hands."

There were two of them. One man, in an RAF uniform with driver's flashes, Garrison had never seen before, but he held a Beretta submachine gun, a weapon he'd seen too often in the last week or so to mistake. The other – the other's revolver was pointed directly at the British Navy Captain, who wasn't, Garrison knew, any such thing, but something very important in the British Secret Service. What was his name? Cadwallader? And his captor...

Even as he raised his hands, Garrison took a sharp breath. Despite the white-blond hair, the moustache, and the Group Captain's uniform, he had him. "Good evening, _Herr_ Wilder. Or is it _Herr_ Miller? Or _Maggiore_ Andreoni? Or perhaps _Herr_ Franz Müller?"

Müller grinned nastily: "At present, Group Captain Lennox-Smythe, at your service, Major Garrison – or is it Adolf Flügg today?"

"Craig, Gottlieb's here too. He's got your mother. And a sniper's rifle," James conveyed everything that needed to be said in those few machine-gun words.

They hit like bullets, too.

The only person who seemed unfazed was von Staaden, who smiled at Müller, and told him, "This will not be forgotten, _Herr_ Müller. I take it Krantz is not far away? Good, good. _Hauptmann_ Jaenicke, relieve these men of any weapons they might have, if you please." Jaenicke, who had been gawping just as much as the Allied officers, closed his mouth and obeyed. "I will have yours, Major Garrison," von Staaden went on. "Thank you. The idea is to requisition this aircraft and leave, yes?"

"Yes." Müller seemed a little dazed at the way control of the situation had been whipped from his hands.

"Then it will have to be refuelled. The Squadron Leader will order it."

"Go to Blazes," said Graham.

"Please reconsider, Squadron Leader. If you refuse, I will have to shoot you. No doubt Colonel Yates will then see to the refuelling."

"Do as he says, Squadron Leader," Franks ordered.

"Furthermore, your men are to open the gates and withdraw. Otherwise we commence shooting. After all, we have hostages to spare," Müller pointed out, digging the gun harder into Cadwallader's neck.

"Too many. You gentlemen," von Staaden gestured with his gun at the MPs, "will get into the back to that convenient truck. But first, I will have the keys. Yes, you, the driver. Hand them over."

"Fuck off."

Von Staaden inclined his head at the man with the Beretta – who fired a very short burst indeed.

The MP's head exploded in a cloud of blood and bone.

"Now you – the next in line – get me the keys. Don't be squeamish or it could be you next. That's better. And Squadron Leader, why are you still here? Do you wish to join him in Heaven?"

Graham didn't. He took off at a run.

 

"That's it," Krantz said, getting to his feet. "Hilda, remind me to recommend Müller for a medal."

"But of course, _Herr_ Krantz. What about this one?" Hilda looked contemptuously at Emma who, though there were tear stains on her cheeks, raised her chin and met Krantz's eyes contemptuously.

"Bring her," he ordered. "She is still our main insurance."

 

When the tanker drove out to refuel the Dakota, Casino and Goniff, in RAF aircraftman's overalls, were hanging on to its far side. As it pulled up alongside the plane, they both exited onto the tail and crawled quickly behind the rudder.

 

At almost the same time, Krantz and Hilda walked through the gate with their prisoner between them, 'borrowed' the Adjutant's jeep, and drove out to join the party on the tarmac.

 

"Dammit to Hell, they beat us to it," Ted said with disgust, as he swung the Pronghorn in a large circle above Dashunt Lacey. The needle on the fuel gauge was tapping zero and had been since they crossed the Channel.

 _"Merda."_ Actor gripped his shoulder hard.

"What's up, Doc?"

"I'm not sure. Keep circling, and keep high." Actor disappeared back into the rear cabin, to re-emerge with field glasses and Simon. Evicting Wireless from the co-pilot's seat, he attempted to focus on the scene below.

 

The jeep disgorged its passengers. Krantz-ex-Gottlieb leading the way, followed by two women, the unknown with a firm grip on the familiar.

If the bastards had hurt Mom—

But, in fact, Garrison had never seen her look so determined, despite – or perhaps because of – the dishevelled hair and the grass-and-sweat stained suit, even though she was in the hard and competent-looking hands of a tall woman dressed in the uniform of the British Land Army. The compressed lips were familiar too; Mom was good and mad, as well as frightened.

 

Von Staaden smiled warmly as the trio approached. "My dear _Herr_ Krantz, you never fail to astonish me. I cannot think of an occasion when have been happier to see you."

Krantz looked with approval at the men refuelling the aircraft under the driver's watchful eye. "We need to take off before dark. The Garrisons will come with us as hostages. Major Garrison will fly the plane."

Von Staaden cocked an eyebrow, but did not question that beyond the comment that, "In this situation, you are the expert." Which was a request for further information. Not as to whether Garrison could fly the plane – Krantz would not have made the statement unless he had been sure that he could – but why this was the wisest course.

"If we take the General and the... er... Captain, the Allies will have to shoot us down. They know too many secrets, will put too many in danger. Mr Garrison, though, they will think about. He is an important civilian, and his wife is totally innocent." He did not add that, though both Garrison and Yates were thinking it, that while everyone was arguing about what to do, they would show the pursuit a clean pair of heels.

And Garrison wouldn't crash the plane with his parents in it.

Von Staaden nodded once, and asked no more questions.

 

Immediately the refuelling was completed, the tanker was driven away, leaving two pieces of supercargo behind.

"What now?" Goniff asked Casino, from where they were hidden at the far side of the Dakota's left wheel.

"You try an' get above them. I'll wait to see if I can get a shot in from here."

"The Warden won't like it if you kill von Staaden."

"If they get this crate off the ground the Warden's dead – and so are his parents."

"So long as it don't take off while I'm up there." Goniff rose, jumped, grabbed the wing edge, and swung himself up and out of Casino's sight.

 

"Major Garrison, you lead the way," Krantz ordered. " _Hauptmann_ Jaenicke, bring Mr Garrison and Hilda, Mrs Garrison. The rest of you gentlemen stay exactly where you are."

Where we can shoot you, more likely, Garrison thought. Krantz had a Sten, replacing the sniper's rifle that was still slung over one shoulder. That, in combination with the Beretta, made for fearful odds.

Hilda had a handgun and von Staaden had equipped himself with Garrison's own Colt .45 automatic, while Jaenicke had one of the MPs' carbines as well as Yates's automatic tucked into his belt.

The odds were all against them. If Goniff and Casino were nearby – and he guessed that they would be – they could do nothing...

There had been the noise of engines in the sky for some time, though that was so normal that no-one took any notice. Now the note had changed, was coming closer.

He glanced up, and his eyes widened as he recognised the plane sweeping down in a long circle, knew who must be at the stick – and realised there might still be a chance.

But not if any of us get into the Dak.

Stall.

Despite the danger, he pulled to a halt. "Hold it. _Hold it!_ I'm not flying anyone anywhere without some guarantees. For a start, let—"

"You are in no position to bargain, Major," von Staaden said, almost sadly. "Now come along, or Müller will shoot your General Franks—"

Now!

"Look behind you," Garrison interrupted.

Von Staaden laughed. "Really, _Herr Major_ , you do not think—"

But by now the whine of the Pronghorn's engines were so loud that they had to take notice. It was Krantz who risked a quick glance.

"Down!" he shouted, grabbing von Staaden.

The Pronghorn's right wheel missed his head by inches, but it was followed by two figures tumbling out of the rear door, right on top of him and Von Staaden.

Actor and Simon.

Oh thank God...

But there was no time for either relief or worry. As the man with the Beretta automatically glanced towards them, Garrison crushed his throat with a blow from his right hand that knotted his whole side with pain, and twisted the smg away with his left.

Simon, trained by the incomparable Fairbairn and Sykes, disarmed and immobilised von Staaden in two swift movements; Actor, trained in a less scientific but equally dishonourable school, kneed Krantz in the groin them stamped on his wrist to disarm him, the gun skittering over the tarmac.

At the same time, Casino exploded from behind the Dakota's wheel and knocked Jaenicke aside, grabbing James's arm and spinning them both, so when he let go James hurtled towards Yates, who threw him into the narrow ditch that drained the tarmac and followed him, as Casino ran on towards the armoured van.

And Müller was down too – not quick enough in getting out of the way of those flying wheels...

Hilda, a little ahead of the others, pushed Emma to armslength and drew a bead on Garrison.

Who fired a burst from the Beretta over her head as he pelted towards the ditch.

He was sure he had fired over her head, unwilling to risk Emma's life on an smg's notorious inaccuracy, but a shot – perhaps from the Beretta, perhaps from something else – threw the woman sideways, dragging Emma to one knee as she fell.

The armoured van's engine roared, and the vehicle rolled forwards, providing cover not only for Franks and Cadwallader, but Actor, Simon and their captives, who clustered behind it.

Emma was back on her feet and running for that same van but, as she passed Müller's prone body a hand snaked out and snatched at her ankle, sending her sprawling – and then Müller was kneeling over her with his gun at her head.

He dragged her to her feet and back against the Dakota's side, one arm around her throat, immobilising her, while he pressed the gun barrel to her ear.

Garrison remembered being in the same position all too well. And Müller was ruthless. With Krantz you might try logic, and von Staaden was a gentleman, but Müller... And Jaenicke was back on his feet too, with a gun in his hand.

Garrison flung himself into the grass, inadequate cover though that provided, and rolled until the ground suddenly disappeared and he found himself in the ditch, along with his father and Yates.

 

On top of the Dakota's wing, Goniff made himself as flat as possible, amazed that none of them had realised where the shot that had downed the German woman had come from.

Bugger it, the bloody Jerries were out of sight now, under the cover of the plane itself.

And they've got the Warden's mum, too. But we've got von Staaden. And if they can't fly the plane, maybe they'll wanna parlay. And there the soddin' blond geezer goes now.

With the cold wind blowing tears into his eyes and the stink of fear and aviation fluid in his nostrils, Goniff knew what he had to do.

"Listen to me!" Müller shouted. "Unless you release _Herr_ von Staaden and _Herr_ Krantz, I will shoot Mrs Garrison in the stomach. And I need Major Garrison to fly the plane. Come here, Major, without a gun and with your hands up. You too, Mr Garrison – if you want your wife to live."

"No!" Emma's voice was strained as she fought for breath, but there was no panic in it. "Craig, you are not to risk yourself for me. Nor you, James. Stay where yo— ow!!

 

Neither Garrison nor his father would have obeyed that command, except for the fact they could see something that Emma and Müller could not.

Goniff was on top of the Dakota, making his way down the wing. Within moments, he would be in striking distance of Müller. No doubt he was holding his fire for fear of hitting Emma.

Garrison tensed, ready to race to his assistance, to shoot if he got the slightest opportunity.

 

Actor and Simon, watching the drama from behind the prison van, had forgotten in their anxiety that Krantz and von Staaden could see what was happening too.

"Müller! On the plane!" Krantz shouted. Actor pistol-whipped him to silence, while Simon's arm effectively gagged von Staaden, but by then it was too late.

Müller's gun shifted slightly. Goniff, who was also drawing aim, hesitated, plainly still unwilling to risk shooting Emma. Müller had no such compunction. A single bullet jerked through Goniff's body, sending him toppling from the wing in silence.

"You bastard—" a voice snarled to Garrison's left, from the driver's seat of the parked van.

"Casino, stay where you are!" he roared. "Do it, or by God you'll be back in Leavenworth tomorrow." He could hear the desperation in his own voice.

It was all falling apart. Oh Christ. Mom, Goniff...

Müller edged over towards where Goniff lay, taking Emma with him. Once he had the angle right, he carefully drew a bead on the thief's head. "I am waiting, _Herr Major._ "

Garrison started to rise, but a hand gripped his arm. He looked down. His father's face was as white as his knuckles.

"No," James said. "Not both of you, Craig. Please." His eyes were colourless, brimming with old a grief almost as old as his son.

It was on an airfield that Kirstin Ross Garrison had died.

Remembering that for the first time, Garrison ached with the same pain, but he couldn't let that cripple him, any more than the nagging pain in his shoulder.

"He's got two people I love at his mercy. And he doesn't have any." Garrison twisted free and rose to his feet, holding his empty hands high in the air, conscious most of all of the eyes on him: his father, Müller, Jaenicke, Yates, Casino and, no doubt, Simon and Actor...

Oh God, Alessandro, forgive me.

James rose behind him, ignoring Yates's protest. Garrison edged in front of him, hoping to shield him if Müller fired.

Jaenicke's eyes moved past Garrison to his father, on to Emma, Müller... Then he was moving too, stepping, with an air of pure accident, between Goniff and Müller's gun.

"Get out of the way, fool!" Müller screamed.

His attention wandered from Emma enough to slacken his grip on her throat. Now she suddenly shifted her weight, jumping onto her left foot, bringing the narrow heel down hard on top of Müller's toes.

If wouldn't have worked if he had been wearing German jackboots, but he was clad in an RAF officer's uniform – and shoes.

The gun spat.

Jaenicke fell, but Emma was free. Half a dozen guns swung to bear on Müller, but the first and telling shot was from the pistol that suddenly appeared in the hand twisted beneath Goniff's apparently lifeless body. It was deadly accurate.

This time Garrison did not try to stop Casino – and Actor – but was racing with them to Goniff's side. James was also running, to snatch his wife into his arms.

Yates spent an instant making sure that von Staaden and Krantz were in the secure custody of Simon, Franks and Cadwallader, then leaped into the seat of the armoured van and drove it hell for leather towards the cluster of steel and concrete huts that marred the bucolic landscape, with the imprisoned MPs still hammering at the door, to summon an ambulance.

 

Even as Garrison and Casino arrived beside the thief, Actor, who had got there first by virtue of his longer legs, was whipping off his jacket. Now he folded it, and shoved it against Goniff's side, with instructions to Casino to, "Hold it on tight until the medics arrive. I'm going to check on Jaenicke."

"Hey, the Kraut's—"

"The Kraut saved Goniff's life. Deliberately, I think." With a light touch of reassurance to Casino's shoulder, Actor was gone.

Far away, they could hear the barking of the dogs greeting Yates's arrival at the barracks. There was something surreal about it. Like war.

Death was the reality.

Garrison had taken Goniff's hand. "C'mon, Goniff. Hang in there."

The blue eyes opened. "Warden?"

"Yeah. I'm here. So's Casino."

"He was gonna kill your mum."

"But he didn't. Thanks to you. So we'd better see that yours gets her son back in one piece." Knowing that Goniff had almost as much difficulty with open emotion as Chief, Garrison did not try to express what he was feeling. "I think that this time it'll maybe take three aspirin."

"Aw, Warden..." Goniff's voice faded, but his grip on Garrison's hand did not slacken.

"Casino, keep that fuckin' compress on tight." Garrison regretted the words long before he was the recipient of the snarled reply.

"What d'you think I'm fuckin' doin—?"

"I'm sorry."

"So am I," Casino said, the scowl lifting. "Wasn't your fault. This idiot—"

"Hey," Goniff protested. "'M the hero, not t'idiot."

"Shhh. Sometimes you're both." Garrison saw with relief that the ambulance was arriving. As soon as the medics reached them, he left Casino with Goniff – and instructions to "stay with him," – and hurried over to where Actor was tending Jaenicke.

"Manfred." 

Jaenicke was conscious, if obviously in pain. "Goniff—?"

"We're all okay. Even von Staaden," James Garrison said, from close by.

Jaenicke's eyes closed.

"And you will be too, _Herr_ Jaenicke," Actor said cheerfully from where he was applying a compress to the young German's shoulder.

"Thank God," Emma whispered. Then, more strongly, "I'll hold you to that, Alessandro. I'd never be able to face Jutta if her only living son had died because of me."

"No-one is going to do that," Actor said. "Though Goniff came closest, I think."

"The other young man? Is he all right?" Emma rose to her feet as if to go and find out for herself.

"He'll be fine, Mom."

"I want to meet him," Emma said firmly. "And your 'Chief'."

James was looking horrified. "Darling, I don't think—" 

"You can meet all of my team," Garrison promised. "But later."

And under circumstances where I can keep an eye on them. Both eyes.

Then he looked at Actor, caught the smile, and was both reassured – and set alight.

The latter would have to wait. Now he could only smile back, and hope the other man could see exactly how he felt. For which he might have to look a good bit lower than his eyes.

Hurriedly, he turned and called to the medics to come for Jaenicke.

 

Emma insisted on going in the ambulance with Jaenicke, though she spared the time to allow Garrison to kiss her cheek and Actor her hand.

It was after they had gone that Garrison managed to corner James. "Father. The information about Müller – without it, we'd probably all be dead or spilling our guts in some German interrogation room. Thank you." He offered his hand.

James took it, then, as Actor had once done, plainly decided to "bugger the Anglo-Saxon stiff upper lip," pulled his son into his arms and hugged him tightly. "Be careful, Craig," he whispered. "You're so like Kirsty – and I couldn't protect her either."

Garrison thought about Actor and his own efforts to protect him, thought about Goniff and the pain of seeing him fall, thought about how frightened he'd been that Casino might be killed too, thought about his family and his friends in danger on this small patch of English soil.

He didn't want to face it again. Yet, while the war lasted...

"Believe me, I understand, Pop, better than you'd ever know. Maybe, when the war's over, I'll surprise you."

"Whatever you do, you can't frighten me more than you did today," James told him. Then he added, "Or make me prouder."

And Garrison found that his father's opinion mattered after all.

 

Epilogue

 

It took a long time to clear up at the airfield, get von Staaden and the other German prisoners on their way, report fully to Yates and less fully to Franks and the others, and drive out to the hospital to check on the condition of Goniff and Jaenicke.

Which was satisfactory, though Casino was still refusing to budge from Goniff's side, which might or might not be due to the presence of a very pretty British nurse.

Simon, Ted, Wireless and the others were sent on their way to visit relatives and friends or to set London ablaze, depending on their natures.

Which left Garrison himself – and, he hoped, Actor.

Who, he was told, had gone back to the Dower house rather than the bright lights, despite the offer of a two week pass, a fact that lifted his tiredness more than the brightness of the new morning.

And it was Actor who opened the door of the Dower House for him. "Welcome back. I was getting lonely. Did you know that the guards have been withdrawn. Even the Sergeant-Major's in London. We're alone here."

It might have been invitation or warning. Garrison wasn't sure how to take it. What did Actor really want?

They looked at each other for a long time, then Garrison flung his hat to one side and said, "Let's go into the garden and talk."

"As you wish."

 

Outside, protected by dew-diamanté hedges, they might have been alone in the whole world, except for the hidden birds singing their hearts out. This place was a kind of paradise, at least would be a paradise after the war. Garrison wanted to bask in the sunshine, smell the flowers and, most of all, enjoy Actor's company without reminders of reality. But Actor wanted to know not only how Goniff was faring, but what was going to happen to them all.

On that, at least, Garrison could reassure him. "The Brass are extremely pleased with us. Medals, promotions, congratulations all round."

"So I noticed," Actor said coldly. "You, Yates—"

"Like I told you, your paroles are quite safe."

"Major!" That was a reminder of Actor's reasons for worrying.

Garrison relented. "I'm going back to Italy. I've been ordered to liaise with Frazini, to run the Allied side of the operations behind the Enemy lines. Chief's already there. You and Casino – and Goniff, when he's fit enough – have the choice of going back with me, or being seconded to SOE, OSS and AI training units for the duration."

Actor looked about him and sighed theatrically. "It's going to be hard to leave all this luxury." As Garrison started to relax just a little and went on, "Still I'm told SOE got their pick of the Stately Homes— Oh, Warden, your face! Of course I'm staying with the Gorillas. Did you ever doubt it?"

He'd been sure Actor was joking – and yet there was still the hint of uncertainty, the lingering question...

How can he love me?

Or maybe Actor simply wanted to go back to his family with a clean slate.

They hadn't touched on their relationship. Maybe Actor wanted to forget it. Away from the battlefield, things could seem very different.

 

Does he still doubt me? Actor was wondering. It's almost as if he's reluctant to take me to Italy with him. Or... has something changed his mind? His promotion? His family? Now he's back in his father's good books he may have decided not to risk falling out of them again. And why should he? If this mission proved anything it's that he belongs in Special Forces. Do I have any right to take him away from them? To destroy something so wonderful? To destroy what he is? And will he still let me?

"It was a messy business," Actor said neutrally. "You were brilliant, but also extraordinarily lucky."

Garrison shook his head. "I'm not so sure. Von Staaden is a deeply honourable man. I can't help wondering if he was playing to lose."

"Not consciously," Actor said. "He risked Krantz's life, and Krantz plainly means a great deal to him."

"But did he really risk Krantz? Or did that risk entail sending him to safety?"

"Is it important that you know?"

"Not really. All I wanted to do was fight the Nazis. I never dreamed I'd end up..."

"Making compromises?"

Garrison's answer was oblique. "If von Staaden co-operates, he'll undoubtedly also get a pardon for any war crimes he may have committed."

"And forgiven being a Nazi," Actor said, with bitterness.

"They'll have to forgive you for being a crook, too."

Actor faced him with the thing he most needed to know. "Will you?"

"Alessandro, I've no right to forgive anyone." Garrison picked at a flower absently, not looking at Actor. "I just wanted to stop what the Nazis were doing to a people and country that I loved. My friends. I wanted to make a difference."

"Hence West Point."

"Hence West Point. And I was young, impressionable. I fell in love."

"With Ward."

"No, with the Army. With the sheer beauty of tactics. With Lee and Grant and Sherman and Pershing – and Alexander and Napoleon and Wellington. With commanders. With glory and brilliance. I wanted to be like them. I never wanted to be a spy but, with my languages and background, I didn't get a choice."

"I'm sorry," said Actor, who wasn't.

"I'm not. If I hadn't joined AISU I would never have met you. The Army's a cold thing to be in love with. It can't hold you in the dark. And it's never really on your side." He turned to look directly at Actor. "But it can be for life. Stick with it, follow its rules, and it'll always be there for you. It doesn't get tired of you or fall in love with someone else."

"Not as much of a risk, then," Actor said, feeling cold inside.

Garrison smiled. "If you don't take risks, you never win anything. Once we've defeated Hitler, there's nothing left in the Army for me. And once you've got your parole, there's nothing for you."

"Wrong. Once you've left the Army, there's nothing there for me."

Garrison's eyes were shining. "It's not going to be easy," he warned. "We can never hold hands, never look at each other the way you're looking at me now. Our whole public lives will be a lie."

"Craig, I'm a conman. And so are you, _caro._ We need the excitement of acting a part, the risk of discovery, just to keep us sane. I need some risk in my life if – as I suppose – you're going to insist that I become honest. And so do you. It may even be fun."

Garrison's eyes were laughing, though his expression was stern. "Oh, I can make sure it's fun."

"And pleasurable, don't forget that."

"Then maybe we'd better go inside. I didn't get any sleep last night. Bed seems like a good idea."

"Doesn't it? Though I'm not as sure about sleep."

As Actor reached out to open the French doors and let Garrison inside, he paused. "It's good to have you home," he said.

"And you. But there's one thing you were wrong about, Alessandro. Home isn't the manor, or this place. Home is where you are."

"Home is here then," Actor said, and closed the door on the outside world.

End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Note on the Histories of WW2, Garrison's Gorillas and Home to Roost and some reference works.
> 
> As anyone who has seen The Big Con knows, Garrison's Gorillas plays fast and loose with history. In trying to write "true to series" fan fiction, historical accuracy has to lose out every time. So it has here. In the world of Home to Roost (and as implied in series) the American entry into the war has been moved forward in time to 1940, with troops arriving in North Africa in '41.
> 
> I have left D-Day on 6th June 1944, but in 'reality' V1s did not start falling on Southern England and the OSS did not start putting agents into Western Europe until after that date. Again following series, Italy was invaded earlier in the Home to Roost universe, and the partisan, CIC and SOE set-up described herein is much closer to that in late '44 and early '45 than May to August 1944. 
> 
> I have always assumed – if only because of Goniff – that the "only surviving son" rule did not apply in the GG universe, though it didn't come in until after D-Day in any event. I would not mention it here, except that Saving Private Ryan has brought it to prominence. For the record, it does not apply in the Home to Roost universe.
> 
> All characters – save for some mentioned "off-stage" – are imaginary. So are Dashunt Lacey, the towns of Lindenbronn and Pontedorato – and one piece of equipment. Other than that, I have tried to make the background, dialogue, attitudes, landscape and equipment as accurate to time and place as possible.
> 
> For the record, in this attempt, the following books have been most useful:
> 
> Private Army by Vladimir Peniakoff – for its accurate description of special forces behind the lines during the invasion of Italy.
> 
> Warriors on Wheels by Park Yunnie – for the same events described as adventure rather than the official history of the PPA.
> 
> From Cloak to Dagger by Charles Mackintosh – for a racy but accurate memoir of the SOE's work in Italy.
> 
> Across the Lines By Donald Gurrey. The British side of military counter-intelligence in Italy, which also contains the best detailed guide to the labyrinthine Intelligence setups of the British, Americans, Germans and Italians I've yet to see.
> 
> America's Secret Army by Ian Sayer and Douglas Botting – for the same events from a CIC (and therefore purely US) viewpoint.
> 
> The Partisans by Donald Mountfield and
> 
> Resistance by M.R.D. Foot – for information on resistance in Italy.
> 
> Sabotage and Subversion by Ian Dear – for the super account of training in both the OSS and the SOE
> 
> Rich Relations by David Reynolds – for the story of the US forces in England
> 
> For military technicalities:
> 
> German Uniforms of the Third Reich 1933-1945 by Brian Leigh Davis and Pierre Turner 
> 
> Modern Small Arms by Frederick Myatt
> 
> The US Army Handbook, 19941-45 by George Forty.
> 
> Jane's Fighting Aircraft of World War 2 (1944)
> 
> Weapons: An International Encylopedia from 5000 BC to 2000 AD
> 
> were indispensable.
> 
> Names came courtesy of International Who's Who, the Oxford Dictionary of First Names – and the German side of my family.
> 
> As always, 
> 
> The Oxford Companion to the Second World War edited by I.C.B. Dear and M.R.D. Foot (whose names appear noticeably above) and
> 
> The Times Atlas of the Second World War
> 
> proved invaluable.
> 
> And finally, hats off to the Encyclopaedia Britannica, CD ROM version, which came up with some answers when nothing else did.


End file.
